


The Gallian Rose: Side Stories

by moonlighten



Series: The Rose, the Wolf, and the Dragon [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-04-07 08:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19081573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: Short fics featuring characters fromThe Gallian Rose, including different POVs on various events in that story.





	1. The Educator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aly as a child, enduring his Gallian lessons.

* * *

 

Alasdair has often speculated that Dylan’s brain must be powered by the working of his jaw, like a mill stone being turned by a water wheel.  
  
If he has to cogitate on anything especially difficult, he will begin chewing on whatever’s closest to hand, whether it’s the end of his calligraphy pen, the buttons on his shirt cuffs or, most frequently, his actual hands. The ends of his fingers are always swollen and bloody, and he’s gnawed so extensively on the hanks of hair closest to his face that they’re noticeably shorter than all the rest. Today, he’s favouring what little remains of his thumbnail, and the rapid clicking of his teeth suggests that he’s finding their latest maths problem taxing.  
  
When Da asks them to put their chalk down and calls on Dylan to give his answer, he goes as white as a sheet, looking as though he might well pass out from sheer horror of it all.  
  
He dislodges his thumb from his mouth with a loud pop that sounds like a cork being pulled from a bottle, and his breath rushes out after it in a shuddery gust. "Twenty-seven," he says in a quiet little mouse squeak of a voice.  
  
Da has a number of telling habits himself, such as cleaning his spectacles if he’s fighting the urge to laugh, and tapping his feet in no particular rhythm whenever he’s contemplating an issue that’s trickier than most.  
  
When he repeatedly smooths his long moustaches, as he is now, it is indicative of some minor agitation.  
  
Dylan looks up at Da and his face crumples into an expression of abject misery. "Or maybe twenty-eight," he says, slightly desperately. "I wasn’t sure, Da. And… And…"  
  
Da springs forward to pat Dylan’s shoulders consolingly when they start to hitch. "Hush, Dyl," he says in a soothing tone. "It’s all right. Let’s take a look at your workings out together; I’m sure we’ll be able to see where you took a wrong turn."  
  
Alasdair waits until Da and Dylan have their heads bent together over Dylan’s slate before leaning across the kitchen table and asking Caitlin in a whisper, "What did you get?"  
  
"Twenty-seven," Caitlin whispers back, smiling wryly. "I got muddled up halfway through and forgot whether I was supposed to be adding or subtracting. I guess I chose the wrong one."  
  
"Me too," Alasdair admits, angling his slate towards his sister so she can see the large twenty-seven he has written at the bottom, underlined twice in a fit of false bravado.  
  
William, who had clearly been straining his ears hard in order to eavesdrop on their conversation, suddenly announces to the room at large, "I got forty-three."  
  
Da smiles at him encouragingly. "That’s right, Will," he says. "Very well done."  
  
William leans back in his chair, his own mouth unsmiling but the rest of his face radiating out enough smug satisfaction in his own cleverness to more than make up for it.  
  
"Here," Da says, getting up from his crouch beside Dylan and moving to the large piece of slate he has propped up against the dresser, "let me show you all how I would work through this problem."  
  
Alasdair tries to concentrate on the glide of Da’s chalk across the slate, he really does, but his mind seems determined to slip off along its own path, regardless of his efforts.  
  
He’s never had a head for numbers in their pure form. They tend to just drift away from him if he doesn’t have something solid to tie them to; some real world meaning that he can apply in terms of observations he’s made. When Da asks him to figure out, say, how far an arrow would fly if it were fired from the top of a twenty foot tower, he can give him an answer with ease, whereas the same question couched in terms of angles and parabolas leaves his head a whistling void bereft of thought.  
  
At first, he’s relieved when he hears the muffled tinkling of the little brass clock in Ma’s laboratory, chiming out the hour, but the feeling is fated to die in the same instant that he remembers which lesson is due to come next in Da’s schedule for their day.  
  
Gallian, the one subject he dislikes more than mathematics.  
  
Dylan and Da look delighted, though. Da, because he thinks the language is ‘sublime’ and gets sent into raptures at the mere idea of it, and Dylan, because he was the one that picked the book they’re in the process of reading, and it sets him to sighing, too, if for completely different reasons.  
  
Frankly, Alasdair can’t understand what Dylan sees in it. There hasn’t been so much as a raised voice in its pages thus far, never mind a duel to the death or anything of the like; just a whole load of people having witty conversations in a succession of parlours and drawing rooms, and expending far too much effort on rhapsodising over the beauty of one another’s eyes.  
  
He’d complained about it to Ma once, but she’d just shaken her head fondly over what she called Dylan’s ‘romantic soul’ and then told him that whilst he might find such considerations tedious now, in a few years time he’d likely be just as preoccupied by that sort of thing as his brother is now.  
  
Though Alasdair usually trusts Ma’s opinion on most topics, he (very privately) believes she’s talking out of her arse on that score. He doesn’t recall ever finding anything particularly fascinating in any face beyond the expression upon it, and he can’t imagine that changing any time soon.  
  
Still, Dylan’s voice is nice enough to listen to, despite the ridiculous phrases he’s currently spouting. Even more so than when he’s speaking Trade, it soars musically, making Mlle. Guillot’s tedious musings on Mlle. Lacroix’s fine figure sound almost like a song.  
  
Da stays as still as a statue, eyes closed in contentment, whilst Dylan reads through a few passages in Gallian, and only stirs into life when Dylan embarks on his translation of them, offering the odd correction here and there.  
  
Alasdair’s Gallian recitation afterwards, however, is marked throughout by Da’s interruptions – ‘‘Mag-ni-feek’, Aly, not ‘mag-ni-fick’’, ‘‘par-fay’, not ‘par-fate’’ – even though his own translation is apparently flawless. He finds the whole process incredibly frustrating, as he can never seem to get his tongue to move around the words in the right way, despite having memorised the proper pronunciations of them long since. They stick and snarl and emerge sounding leaden and misshapen, no matter how hard he tries.  
  
To be honest, he doesn’t know why Da continues trying to teach him in the face of his obvious ineptitude, as it seems very unlikely that he’ll ever have reason to converse in Gallian with anybody.  


 

* * *

  
  
After the trial by Gallian ends, Da gives them a free hour to do with as they wish. They all lunch on bread, cheese and a little of the ham Mr Fischer had traded Ma in exchange for a bottle of willow bark pills, and then Dylan retreats to their shared bedroom to read ahead in the dreadful Gallian book; William to Ma’s laboratory, probably to complain about how Gallian sounds like someone hawking up phlegm, as he always does, and that his dullard siblings are holding him back in his pursuit of mathematical excellence.  
  
Alasdair and Caitlin take up the wooden swords Mr Caballero had made for their birthday the year before and go out into the back yard to spar.  
  
When they were younger, seeing that they had a real thirst for it, Da had dug out two foils from his university days and attempted to teach them the form of sword fighting that he had learnt himself. Fencing had been a disappointment, though; far too bound by rules and not a technique that seemed as though it would be useful on a battlefield, pitted against men and women in full armour.  
  
So, the twins had set out to teach themselves what they wanted to know without Da’s help. They’d saved together their pennies, bought a battered old book about military training, read it from cover to cover in a single sitting, and then devised their own regime of drills and practice sessions.  
  
Alasdair can’t be sure that he’s improved appreciably in the two years since then, however. No matter how precisely he thrusts his sword, how quickly he ducks, or parries, or moves his feet, he still has failed to beat his sister in any of their mock fights.  
  
Today, she knocks his sword aside easily on his first swing after they’ve warmed up, swerves around his second, and as he’s moving his arm back to make a third, darts in quickly on his right side, where he’s unprotected, and sweeps his legs out from underneath him with a lazy hook of her own.  
  
He falls heavily, cracking his head so hard against the flagstones below that the impact sounds as loud as a thunderclap to his own ears, and his vision blacks out momentarily. It bleeds back slowly, like paint being dribbled across the front of his eyes, and, for a moment, Alasdair wishes it hadn’t returned, because the first thing it reveals is Caitlin’s triumphant grin.  
  
"Maybe you shouldn’t join the army, after all," she says, digging the point of her sword into the most prominent part of his collar bone. "Fighting like that, you’d probably get chopped to pieces in short order. I’d hate to have to bring you home to Ma and Da in a bag, little brother."  
  
She only ever lords those twenty minutes of seniority she has over him when she’s sent him sprawling. She isn’t usually a sore winner about anything else, but Alasdair can think of no other reason for it other than adding a little salt into the wounds of his defeat.  
  
He scowls at her, bats her sword aside, and tries to push himself upright. A dull ache builds inside his skull as his position changes, and he has to settle for remaining in a low crouch when it threatens to get unbearable, his chest pressed against his bent knees.  
  
"Are you all right?" Caitlin asks. "You look like crap."  
  
Before Alasdair has chance to reply, Caitlin roughly parts the hair at the back of his head and starts prodding at his scalp. The pain makes Alasdair’s stomach spasm violently, bile scorching the back of his throat.  
  
"Shit," Caitlin breathes unsteadily. "I’d better go and get some of that Arnica tincture from Ma, otherwise you’re likely going to have a lump the size of my fist there tomorrow, Aly."  
  
Alasdair stares down at the floor as she hurries away, concentrating on breathing evenly and not throwing up, and by the time he hears footsteps approaching again, he feels settled enough to risk lifting his head again.  
  
The sound hadn’t heralded his sister’s return, but Dylan’s arrival, and he stares down at Alasdair with wide, damp eyes, his bottom lip caught up between his teeth.  
  
"You’re hurt," he observes pointlessly, after a moment’s silent fretting.  
  
"I’m fine," Alasdair snaps, sharply enough that it causes Dylan to snatch back the hand he was tentatively reaching out before it can make contact. "Just had a little bump. What are you doing down here anyway? I thought you were reading."  
  
"I’ve finished," Dylan says, a little morosely. "I hoped I might be able to play with you and Cait for a bit before we go back to our lessons."  
  
"We’re not playing, we’re training."  
  
The very suggestion annoys Alasdair, though he’s not entirely sure whether it’s due to the misconception itself – which his brother persists in no matter how many times Alasdair corrects him – or Dylan’s continual need to be included in everything that Caitlin and Alasdair do. He’s always tagging along after them, getting underfoot and trying to ingratiate himself with their friends, and it infuriates Alasdair at the best of times. He has absolutely no patience for it now.  
  
"Piss off, will you?" he snaps. "I’ve got a bad enough headache as it is; your yammering’s just going to make it worse."  
  
Dylan’s eyes turn glossy with tears, but he does take a step back. He pauses before taking another and says in a soft, wavering tone, "I overheard what Cait said to you earlier, and… You’re not really going to join the army, are you, Aly?"  
  
"As soon as we turn nineteen and they’ll take us, we’re both going to sign up," Alasdair tells him, because he’s bound to find out eventually anyway, and it makes no odds to Alasdair whether it’s sooner rather than later. "I’m counting down the fucking days."  
  
The trip to the lake Da had taken Caitlin and Alasdair on when they were eight had birthed a desire in him to see more of the world than the small patch of Britannia defined by Deva’s walls, and he’d likely travel the length and breadth of the Empire, serving in the army. Besides, Alasdair doesn’t want to work in a shop, or down at the mill or tannery, and Old Town is hardly bursting with alternative employment opportunities. He might not be as skilled with a sword as he’d like, but he’s strong, and Ma thinks he’ll grow up to be as tall as her Da was, so soldiering seems to be something he might actually be good at.  
  
"Maybe I’ll come with you, too," Dylan suggests, seemingly forgetting that he cries every time Ma has to set down mousetraps and gets out of breath just from running up the stairs to their bedroom.  
  
"Naw, I don’t think the army’s the right place for you, Dyl," Alasdair says, chuckling despite his pounding head. "You’ll have started your apprenticeship with Ma by the time we leave, and Will’ll probably want to work with Da on his book, so you’ll doubtless be fine without us. Cait and me, though? I can’t think that of anything that might keep us from wanting to go."


	2. The Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Philippe's POV of some of the events of [Chapter 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18882250/chapters/44818894) of The Gallian Rose.

* * *

  
  
Eight months ago, Philippe would be eating a late breakfast at this time, or, better yet, if the previous night had been well-spent, he would still be sleeping off its excesses.  
  
Yesterday, he had retired to his bed long before midnight, both sober and alone.  
  
  
    _"There have been several unsubstantiated reports of skirmishes along the western edge of the border with Caledonia."_  
  
  
Eight months ago, he would have been eagerly anticipating the day ahead. There would be friends to visit, perhaps assignations to keep, and afterwards the theatre to attend, or a concert, or party, or lecture given by one of the pre-eminent authorities in whatever field of study had lately taken his fancy.  
  
Everything comes late to Deva. The most fashionable lords and ladies of Highgate would have been considered outmodedly dressed a year ago in Gallia; in Roma, two. He has seen every play in production at least once, listened to every concerto, and read the libretto to every opera staged at the playhouse.  
  
The Devans themselves have nothing to say that he has not heard before. He has yet to meet any exceptional mind or wit, or even someone who can hold his attention throughout the course of a single conversation.  
  
He had to beg, plead and – in Jean's case – blackmail his siblings into staying with him for a spell, just to keep from falling into the habit of talking to himself in desperation.  
  
  
    _"The Paupers’ Order humbly request that you consider donating them the disused Post Office building in Old Town. It’s stood empty, they say, since the new sorting office was opened ten years ago, and has since fallen into disrepair. They propose to renovate it, and then use it as a shelter for the destitute population thereabouts."_  
  
  
Eight months ago, he wasn’t aware that the town of Deva even existed.  
  
His reasons for choosing to make his home here rather than in the slightly more salubrious environs of Eboracum are as sound as they ever were, but he still finds himself wishing, every day, that he’d continued in his happy ignorance.  
  
  
  
    _"And the Butcher’s Guild cordially invite you to attend their quarterly review meeting."_  
  
  
  
Eight months ago, he and the concept of a Butcher’s Guild were not on so much as nodding terms.  
  
The Philippe of eight months ago was a very lucky man.  
  
  
"That’s all of this morning’s correspondence, Your Highness," M. Jansen, says, neatly adding these last three letters to the small stack on his desk that they’ve already reviewed.  
  
Everything about the man is neat and methodical – from the tidy tail of his hair down to the spit shine of his shoes – and he’s as economical with himself as he is with the Imperial monies Philippe entrusts him with the accounting of. Each movement he makes is contained, he speaks no word without purpose, and his expressions typically give away nothing of his thoughts.  
  
Such qualities make him almost impossible to read and thus something of an enigma as a man, but as a secretary, they make him invaluable.  
  
Philippe isn’t sure that he likes him, but he certainly appreciates him.  
  
An infinitesimal upward tic of M. Jansen’s left eyebrow indicates that he’s ready to take note of the replies he will be expected to send, and so Philippe begins, "Inform Legate Giordano that he has my permission to dispatch a century to the border from the barracks at Luguvalium so they can investigate whether there’s any truth to those reports.  
  
"The Paupers’ Order can have the old Post Office, and a donation of a hundred gold towards the repairs. Let them know that I believe in their cause wholeheartedly and ask that they say a prayer for me to whichever deity they believe most fitting.  
  
"Thank the Butcher’s Guild for their invitation, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline it. Tell them that… I have a prior engagement, have suddenly been taken ill, or that the stars are ill-fated for our meeting; whichever you think they’d be least likely to take offence at."  
  
M. Jansen gives a politely understated cough of correction. "Your predecessor made sure to attend each guild’s quarterly review session every year he was stationed in Eboracum, I believe."  
  
Philippe’s predecessor was the son of a pig farmer, who had risen steadily through the ranks of the Imperial army over thirty years of exemplary service and had been given the governorship of Northern Britannia upon his retirement in recognition of his dedication to the Empire. He had thrown himself into the role – down to its very dullest elements – with a passion that approached zealotry, determined to prove himself worthy of the honour that had been bestowed upon him.  
  
He had considered his posting a great reward for a life well lived.  
  
Philippe is twenty-six years old, his life is in Gallia, and, to his mind, it had barely even begun before his father ripped it away from him.  
  
His posting feels like a prison sentence.  
  
"I know nothing about the Guild’s trade, M. Jansen," Philippe says, unfolding himself from the narrow, unpadded chair he’s been confined to for far, far too long. "I’ve never even entered a butcher’s shop, never mind bought anything from one. What could I possibly contribute to the proceedings?"  
  
M. Jansen’s face is blank, but as it is very rarely anything else, it does not constitute an answer in and of itself. His silence, on the other hand, is much more telling.  
  
"As I thought," Philippe says. "And that concludes our business for this morning?"  
  
"It does, Your Highness."  
  
From the specific angle of the little bow M. Jansen offers him, Philippe recognises it as one of farewell. He’d never dream of saying it aloud, but his body is clearly asking that he be left alone to get on with his work in peace.  
  
Philippe gladly obliges him.

  
 

* * *

  
  
  
  
As the clouds outside are the steely sort of grey that promises an imminent downpour – a particular hue that Philippe dubbed Brittonic within the first week of his exile, as it had seemed to him then that the skies over his new homeland would never be any other colour – Philippe decides to take a turn around the palace building rather than the gardens to work out the ache in his muscles.  
  
The governor’s palace is smaller than Philippe’s father’s in Lutetia, and even Maman’s Augustodunum estate house where Philippe had spent most of his youth, but it’s still large enough that walking two circuits around its ground floor is generally sufficient to help him recover from time spent in the horrible little chair in M. Jansen’s office.  
  
When he passes by the glass paned doors to the conservatory on his second circuit, he catches sight of a figure moving around in the room beyond them.  
  
A figure which has no right to be there.  
  
At this hour, not one member of Philippe’s resident family will have even begun to bestir themselves, and Andrei is the only member of his staff who has permission to enter the conservatory unaccompanied during daylight hours.  
  
He had been stricken with the ague during the night, according to M. Jensen, and was too weak to rise from his bed.  
  
Even though there is a quarter century of guards posted around the palace and its grounds at this moment, all of them highly trained and combat ready, no armour is without its chink. An equally skilled thief could doubtless find a way to evade their notice.  
  
The gaudy sword at Philippe’s hip is little more than a symbol of his office – ‘Pretty, but useless,’ his father had said when he presented it to him on his last night in Gallia. ‘It suits you well.’ – but it’s sharp enough that he could still do some real damage with it if needs be.  
  
He rests his right hand in preparation atop the bejewelled pommel and eases open one of the doors with his left.  
  
The intruder’s attention is fixed so intently on the small rose bush a few feet away that he does not react to either the creak of hinges or the soft sound of Philippe’s footfalls when he steps down onto the conservatory’s tiled floor.  
  
Perhaps he cannot even hear them over his own. He walks with great purpose but very little grace, appearing to slam all his weight down with each step he takes. And he’s a big man: tall, and broad across the back.  
  
Heavily muscled, too, it becomes abundantly clear as he draws closer. Although his roughspun trousers bag loosely around his hips and thighs, his shirt looks to be at least two sizes too small, and clings almost indecently close to every last line of his chest and arms.  
  
Whatever his interest in the roses might be, it doesn’t seem to be theft, because when he finally reaches them, he does not attempt to lift the pot, he simply crouches a little and then reaches out to touch the closest flower.  
  
Philippe takes a cautious step forward, tilting his head slightly so he can better see the man’s face.  
  
In profile, at least, he resembles very closely the statues of long-dead heroes that pepper the Imperial gardens in Roma: his nose, chin and jaw are all strong, but perfectly proportioned, and his skin is marble smooth.  
  
The only details which mar the picture are the bristles on his cheeks and his hair, which sticks up from his crown and out above his ears in chaotic spikes which no Roman sculptor worthy of the name would ever consider inflicting on one of their creations.  
  
His lips are also fuller than any they would carve and there’s something about the way the bottom one blanches slightly when he sinks his teeth into it in thought – or perhaps the long length of his eyelashes, which look strangely delicate when set in contrast to the rest of his features; or perhaps the gentle way he runs his fingers across the rose’s petals; or perhaps his _everything_ – that makes Philippe forget every ounce of good sense that the gods and his maman had given him. That makes him incredibly foolish.  
  
The man might not be a thief, but he’s most definitely a trespasser. Philippe should call for the guards.  
  
He doesn’t.  
  
He takes another step towards him and says, "The Gallian rose. It’s very beautiful, is it not?"  



	3. The Brother 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aly's brother Michael's POV on some of the events that take place during [chapter 5](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18882250/chapters/44819158) of TGR.

Virtually the only part of his work that Michael actually enjoys is sweeping the street in front of the apothecary after lunch, which, for reasons that escape his understanding, Dylan insists is a vital part of his daily routine.  
  
The draw isn't so much the sweeping itself – which is dull, repetitive, and tends to make Michael's back ache – but that every so often, if he's very lucky, Mr Olsen will set Emilía to performing the same task at the same hour.  
  
Today is a good day, and when he steps outside with his broom, he glances towards Mr Olsen's shop and sees Emilía already standing there, leaning on her own, far less tattered brush.  
  
As is their occasional ritual whenever the stars (and their respective guardians' whims) correctly align, Michael raises his eyebrows at her in a way that is meant to convey the sentiment, ' _This is a waste of both our lives, isn't it? It's a fucking road; it'll get covered in muck and dead leaves again a few minutes after we've finished, regardless. I'm sure Dylan thinks that he has to get me to do all this pointless crap so I don't have enough time to become involved with the wrong people, the type who will get me addicted to dragonweed which I'll have to turn to crime in order to afford, inevitably leading to my demise in a gutter at a tragically young age_.'  
  
Emilía's answering eye roll, Michael would like to believe, indicates her full agreement.  
  
He gives her a wry smile that says, ' _What is a tragedy is that we're stuck here, futilely pushing dirt around, when we could be…_ " Here, Michael's imagination fails him for a moment, as he never really does anything save his training, running errands for Dylan and Alasdair, and his weekly trip to the Lost Antler. ' _Lying in bed eating bread and jam, and reading books that have nothing to do with herbs_ ,' is his best attempt, seeing as though it was how he had spent the remains of his morning, luxuriating in the unusual freedom afforded by both of his brothers being otherwise occupied.  
  
Emilía's mouth opens slightly, on what Michael fears might be a shocked gasp.  
  
' _Not together, of course_ ,' Michael hurriedly assures her with a desperate flap of his hand. ' _In our own separate beds, with our own separate books about—_ "  
  
Emilía shakes her head and then quickly turns away, busying herself with her sweeping.  
  
' _This is why you have no friends_ ,' Michael tells himself sternly, giving his own brush a disconsolate shove across the cobbles. ' _You can't even have a_ silent _conversation with someone without fucking it up. No doubt Mr Olsen's eventually going to get wind that you accidentally propositioned his daughter, then he'll come round and threaten you with that illegal pistol that Aly knows he has but has been pretending he doesn't because he still feels embarrassed about that whole head-butting thing last year, and Aly will be forced to arrest him_.'  
  
Michael is still musing on the likely repercussions of Mr Olsen's hypothetical imprisonment an indeterminate length of time later when Dylan stomps up behind him taps him on the shoulder.  
  
At first, Michael expects to be gently chided on the piss poor job he's been doing of street beautification, but his brother instead says, "What do you think could have caused all this commotion?"  
  
Michael's honest answer of, "What commotion?" causes his brother to regard him with mild concern.  
  
"Are you having that trouble with your ears again?" Dylan asks. "I've still got some of that vinegar solution left over from last time, if you are."  
  
"My ears are fine." And now he's been roused from his consuming thoughts about how he, Aly and Dylan have likely all been doomed to a shared future of lonely bachelorhood by their divergent yet equally damning quirks of personality, Michael can hear distant cheering. "I was just concentrating so hard on my work that I didn't notice before. I can hear it now."  
  
Dylan doesn't appear entirely convinced by Michael's claims of aural health. "It was loud enough to wake me up," he says, anxiously pressing the back of one hand against Michael's forehead, checking his temperature.  
  
It clearly didn't wake him up very well, as Dylan still looks more than half asleep: his eyes red and puffy, mouth slack, and pillow creases etched into his cheek.  
  
"Honestly, Dyl, there's nothing wrong with—"  
  
Michael is interrupted by the sound of pounding feet, and suddenly little Joe Hunter bursts out of the alley that connects to Bow Lane, running towards his ma's ironmongery like his arse is on fire. "There's a great big carriage coming this way," he screams as he tears past them. "The horses are wearing fancy hats and everything."  
  
"Fancy hats?" Michael asks his brother, who is extremely knowledgeable about the eccentricities of nobles due to his partiality for books that use meticulously researched royal courts as a backdrop for their characters' even more meticulously chronicled shagging.  
  
"I presume he means those feather plumes they sometimes put in their bridles," Dylan says. "It's more of a Gallian fashion, though; never really caught on over here. There are a few noble families in Highgate whose ancestors originally moved over here after Gallia was conquered but before Britannia was, so I suppose it could belong to one of them."  
  
That seems unlikely to Michael. Usually, whenever Highgate lords and ladies decide that they want to daringly slum it Old Town for a while, they try and draw as little attention to themselves as possible. They attempt to roughen their accents and wear plain clothes in an insultingly poor state of repair in their efforts to 'fit in'.  
  
"Perhaps one of our neighbours has come into a lot of money," he suggests instead to Dylan. "And they wanted to announce it by rolling up with their new fancy-hatted horses before they pack up and retire to Lusitania or something."  
  
He and Dylan trade increasingly outlandish theories back and forth until the carriage finally rounds the corner into their street, whereupon Dylan says with hushed awe, "That's the Imperial banner it's flying. I think it must have come from the palace." He chuckles dryly. "Perhaps the prince decided to give Aly a lift home to make up for dragging him out of his bed this morning."  
  
Michael very much doubts that, too. From all that he's ever read, and seen from the behaviour of their occasional Highgate tourists, highborn types don't care a great deal about disrupting the lives of the hoi polloi.  
  
When Corporal Brown had called into the apothecary earlier, to reassure a frantic Dylan that Alasdair hadn't been the victim of a kidnapping as he'd been well on the way to convincing himself of, she hadn't even been able to tell them why the prince had demanded that their brother had to be the one to aid him, despite all the other guards who were actually on duty at the time.  
  
Alasdair's hitherto unmentioned role in a top-secret mission for the Gallian royal family had been Emily's best guess; that their brother's reputation as a guard was superlative enough to have reached even the governor's ears was Dylan's.  
  
Michael had simply concluded that the prince had wanted what he wanted for some reason that he would probably never deign to reveal to anyone – Alasdair included – and hadn't given a single thought or shit about how it might impact anyone's day but his own.  
  
To his surprise, Alasdair does step out of the carriage after it draws to a halt – and after the coachman has proudly announced to the world at large exactly who the carriage belongs to, in case there was any doubt remaining – though his appearance is much more in line with Michael's expectations. His skin has a decidedly grey tinge, and his posture is even more appalling than it normally is, leaving his shoulders hunched up so high that they're almost brushing his ears.  
  
"I can't believe he went to see a prince wearing those trousers," Dylan whispers in a horrified tone. "The seat's so thin that you can practically see his entire arse through it. I wanted to turn them into dishcloths, but, no, 'I can get another few months of wear out of them,' he tells me. A few more months of flashing—"  
  
Dylan's words fade into a thin wheeze when the coachman helps the carriage's other occupant disembark, and he clutches at Michael's arm like he's trying to stop himself keeling over from the sheer marvel of it all.  
  
Although he doesn't particularly resemble the woodcuts Michael has seen of him (which give him the sombre air of a much older man, and, for some reason, always have him seated on a rearing horse) there's no mistaking him for anyone other than Prince Philippe.  
  
The golden prince, they always call him in the periodicals, and everything about him does seem to shine: his hair, his skin, and his teeth as he briefly flashes them at the crowd assembling at the far end of the street, bared in a dazzling smile.  
  
What Michael sees next – and he's fairly certain, given their respective distances and angles of view, that no-one else does – seems as though it might explain why the prince had apparently taken an interest in his brother.  
  
Just for a moment, and perhaps inspired by near-transparent trousers as his gaze meanders downwards, the prince looks at Alasdair as though he'd like to smother him in honey and then do unspeakable things to his person.  
  
After he's got over his initial shock at the thought of anyone being thus inspired by Alasdair – whose resemblance to the scarecrow Claire keeps planted in her vegetable patch is merely more pronounced than usual, and not precipitated by the unusual circumstances of his morning – Michael finds that the idea has a certain righteous appeal to it.  
  
As Alasdair likely wouldn't know how to do unspeakable things to anyone even with the aid of explanatory notes and helpful diagrams (and, indeed, it's never been definitively proven to either Michael or Dylan's satisfaction that he'd even _want_ to), the prince is bound to be disappointed in whatever burgeoning desires he might be entertaining.  
  
It could only do noble-borns like the prince some good, Michael thinks, to have their desires thwarted now and again, because if they were, then maybe they'd think twice about throwing their weight around and disrupting people's hard-earned rest in the future.  
  



	4. The Brother 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael's POV on Aly's big fight with Jakob Olsen, set during [Chapter 8](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18882250/chapters/44895286) of TGR.

Two days after the head-butting incident, Alasdair's face was still purpled with bruises, Mr Olsen looked like he was gestating a large chicken egg under the skin of his forehead, and Michael had his first and last conversation with Emilía.  
  
Alasdair had awoken that morning seemingly infused with great purpose – although, it later transpired, not a great deal of good sense – and had announced after breakfast that he was going to 'sort things out with Jakob once and for all'.  
  
Dylan had agreed that yes, that was a fine idea, and, yes, it really was for the best, but, still, when Alasdair set out for Mr Olsen's apothecary, he'd dragged Michael out to stand on the front step of their own so they could 'keep an eye' on their brother.  
  
"I don't think this is going to end well," he said in-between nervous little nips at his thumb nail.  
  
At first, it looked as though Dylan's pessimism was groundless, because when Mr Olsen stepped out of his shop in answer to Alasdair's knock, they greeted each other with perfect civility. Mr Olsen offered what looked to be a friendly smile of welcome, and Alasdair – whose badly split top lip had temporarily reduced his range of facial expressions down to slight variations around the theme of deadpan – returned a courteous nod.  
  
And for the next few minutes that followed, they seemed to chat quite pleasantly, but then, all of a sudden, an ill wind began to blow. In response to some remark of Alasdair's – inaudible due to distance for the most part, but Michael hadn't needed to hear it clearly to know that it was insultingly blunt, nonetheless, because Alasdair had absolutely no sense of tact – Mr Olsen's expression curdled, souring like days old milk.  
  
He snapped back something equally indistinct and jabbed one fingertip into the centre of Alasdair's chest.  
  
Dylan bit clean through his nail with a loud click as his teeth clashed together. "Oh, dear," he said.  
  
Both Dylan and William had told Michael that Alasdair had had a nasty temper when they were younger, prone to random acts of violence, vicious teasing, and the throwing of completely undeserving people into ponds. The Alasdair who had, after a fashion, raised Michael had either calmed with age, or else worked out all his aggression during his work hours, because he was mostly just prone to being grumpy and argumentative, with only very sporadic forays into being a rude, insensitive dick.  
  
Thankfully, it appeared that the more mature Alasdair was in the coachman's seat of his mind that day, because he simply took gentle hold of Mr Olsen's hand and eased it away.  
  
Mr Olsen's other hand was raised in an instant to assume jabbing duty in place of its fallen ally.  
  
Alasdair's back, very slowly, started to straighten up out of its habitual slouch.  
  
"Oh, shit," Dylan said, his own shoulders stiffening. "Someone should do something before one of them gets hurt."  
  
Being that someone, of course, fell to Dylan. who could no more keep from bodily throwing himself between Alasdair and any punch that might be aimed his way than Alasdair could him on those very rare occasions that their positions were reversed.  
  
Mr Olsen glanced at him as he drew near, gave him a once-over, and then obviously dismissed him from his thoughts, returning the entirety of his attention to Alasdair.  
  
Michael guessed it was a perfectly natural reaction, because Dylan was short, plump, and usually wore the faintly apologetic expression of a person who felt as though, wherever they might currently be standing, they were taking up a place in the world that someone else would probably make better use of.  
  
But he could be vicious. Pushed in the right way, at the right time, and with the right force, he fought with all the ferocity of a bear protecting its cubs and wasn't above using his teeth and nails in the same way as one, if it came to that. (Or utilising a well-timed knee to the bollocks, which Michael supposed bears didn't often resort to, but no simile was perfect.)  
  
Apparently not content to be ignored, Dylan politely tapped Mr Olsen on the shoulder. He wheeled around in response, and that brought his pointed finger out of contact with Alasdair's chest and into the hollow of Dylan's throat.  
  
And then all the hells broke loose.  
  
The doors that weren't cracked at Mr Olsen's shout of, "He doesn't need you to fight his battles for him," were flung open with abandon when Alasdair bellowed, "Don't you fucking dare touch him," and their neighbours all poked their heads out with interest.  
  
There was little better to liven up the dull, crawling early hours of a workday than a bit of impromptu street theatre.  
  
Alasdair pushed Mr Olsen back a step; one fist raised, but only in warning. Then Mr Olsen called Alasdair a 'eunuch' at the top of his lungs, and Dylan didn't even give him chance to take another breath before he punched him.  
  
The resulting scuffle very quickly drew in extra participants on either side from amongst the gathering crowd, and as a result was so loud that Michael wasn't aware that Emilía had approached him until she said, "I can't believe they're doing this."  
  
She didn't sound scared or even anxious but spoke in the leaden tone of someone mortified that their father was making a complete spectacle of himself in front of practically everyone they knew.  
  
Michael, who was experiencing a very similar feeling in duplicate, replied with a heartfelt, "Neither can I."  
  
Emilía nodded, but didn't seem inclined to add more, and Michael, in that moment, couldn't bring to mind anything to add. (Beyond perhaps remarking that his brothers looked to have the best fighting form of anyone in the fracas, anyway, and that didn't exactly seem appropriate given the circumstances.)  
  
Michael liked to think, though, that that silent moment of shared embarrassment over having relatives – that common sentiment – might just help to draw them a tiny bit closer, and he promised himself that next time they talked, he'd build on that small foundation and manage to get out two sentences instead of just one.  
  
   
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Michael would also like to think that he and Emilía are like the heroes and heroines in some of the more dramatic of Dylan's romance novels. The kind who aren't kept apart by the lack of the penultimate chapter's convenient windfall or their inexplicable failure to sit down and have an actual honest conversation with each other, but by blood debts, and anguish, and, most importantly, their feuding families.  
  
In those books, the final act's resolution was generally brought about by a brave stand by the hero and/or heroine – with optional sword in hand – in which the strength of their love thawed the cold hearts of the respective families' matriarchs and/or patriarchs. Centuries' old grudges were thereafter forgotten, permission for courtship granted all round, and everyone held hands and skipped happily off towards the wedding on the final page.  
  
He doubts a single one of those courageous souls would have ever got their happy ending if they'd had to deal instead with Alasdair, because his heart isn't made of ice, but fucking stone.  
  
"No," Alasdair says, scowling at nothing in particular, "I'm not going to try and apologise to Jakob again. The first twenty times were humiliating enough."  
  
"But you're keeping me and Emilía apart!"  
  
Michael means it to be an impassioned cry, but to his own embarrassment, it sounds more like a whine, which doubtless justifies the slightly horrified look Alasdair gives him in response.  
  
It also explains his brother's sighed, "Gods above," and the frustrated-looking pinch he gives to the bridge of his nose, but probably not the shuffling little dance of shifting weight he performs in his chair afterwards.  
  
That, he's sure, is due to whatever fresh injury he'd managed to inflict on his back during his afternoon's visit to the governor's palace. The one that, by a mutual accord reached over many years of growling annoyance on Alasdair's part and anguished fretting on Dylan's, they'll all pretend never happened unless Alasdair happens to fall to the floor and beg for the succour of arnica liniment and willow bark tea.  
  
In retrospect, it probably wasn't the best time for Michael to have brought up the ever-vexatious subject of Mr Olsen.  
  
"Look, Mikey, have I ever told you can't be friends with Emilía?" Alasdair says eventually, sounding very weary.  
  
Michael shakes his head.  
  
"And, leaving aside what happened between him and me, Jakob is a reasonable man, so I'm sure he's never told Emilía that she can't be friends with you, either," Alasdair says. "Maybe she... Maybe she just doesn't want to be."  
  
Maybe, but Michael's sure it's something more than that. She always smiles when she sees him, and she always seems happy to join in the silent conversations they take part in over their brooms. Her father might not be stopping them from talking, but maybe she might just be as shy as Michael himself.  
  
The only way he's going to find out, though, is if he's brave in his own way. He might not have to pick up a sword, but he will have to learn how to wield his words well enough that he can be the one to approach her and see if she wants to have another conversation out loud.  
  



	5. The Governor 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hopefully, there will be another part to this chapter eventually. It's unfinished in its AU form, too, but I have started working on completing it!)
> 
> The past tense parts of this are a chronological story of Philippe's life in Gallia and his relationship with his father. The present tense parts are all set during his time in Deva.

* * *

 

 

Philippe's voice had not yet finished breaking when last Maman entered his chambers uninvited, thus her presence at his bedside when he awoke both surprised and mortified him.  
  
He had recently come of age; a joyful event in any young person's life, but he was the nephew of an Emperor, the oldest son of the Duchesse of Augustodunum and the King of Gallia, and the celebrations to mark the occasion had been so decadently lavish that he was still recovering from their excesses three days later.  
  
His hair was an unwashed, uncombed tangle, his stomach rolling, and the inside of his mouth tasted unspeakably vile.  His skin was still brined from the sweat of the previous night's exertions, but his partner in them had slipped away whilst the moon was still full in the sky. Maman had never much liked Comte Fontaine, denouncing as him as lecher and an opportunistic snake, even though his flatteries and flirtations had never once overstepped the bounds of propriety before.  
  
Philippe was a man now, and if he wanted to take a lover more than twice his age, then that was his right as well as his considerable pleasure.  
  
Nevertheless, he was glad that the Comte had not, in the end, succumbed to his pleading and pouting and begging for him to please not to leave so soon, though he'd claimed at the time that his heart would never recover from the loss.  
  
Despite his liberation from childhood mores, Maman doubtless would still not have approved to discover Fontaine in his bed, and Philippe did not feel equal to weathering a raised voice or sudden movement, never mind an argument.  
  
"I'm afraid you find me at a disadvantage, Maman," he said, pressing one hand flat against his forehead. The skin of his palm was cool, and somewhat eased the sickening ache inside his skull. "I am not fit to face the day, much less company."  
  
He expected Maman to laughingly chide him for being a slugabed, perhaps call him ' _mon petit chat_ ' with a despairing shake of her head as she had many times when he was a child, curled up so tight and warm and comfortable inside his nest of quilts that he'd slept straight through breakfast.  
  
But she stayed silent and stared down at him with eyes turned storm-grey by a wash of unshed tears, her normally smooth brow puckered by a fine tracery of pin-scratch creases. One of her slim hands was pressed against her throat, long, elegant fingers fluttering like nervous butterflies, and the gesture drew Philippe's own eyes towards the collar of her dress. The one button upon it that lay askew; twisted in its buttonhole and not quite flush with all the rest.  
  
On anyone else, such a slight imperfection would not command more than a split second of Philippe's thoughts and attention, but Maman never presented or comported herself with anything less than absolute perfection. She was always impeccably dressed, and always demanded the same of her son.  
  
'A sloppy appearance suggests sloppy thoughts, Philippe,' she had often said, 'and others will be quick to try and take advantage of that.'  
  
"Maman, what's wrong?" Philippe asked, quickly scrabbling up into a sitting position, queasiness and fatigue both forgotten in his anxiety. "Are you unwell? Has something happened to Marie or Jean?"  
  
"It is nothing like that, _mon cher_." Maman's words were reassuring, though her tone was anything but. She bit down hard on her plump bottom lip, the dark flesh blanching beneath the blunt edges of her teeth, and then added, "I... There is a birthday gift you have yet to open. It arrived for you early last week."  
  
Philippe had received so many gifts of late – a fine bay horse, clothes and jewels and ornaments beyond counting, and even a small house of his own in town – that he was sated with them and felt no particular impatience to accept another. He could not imagine, either, why Maman was so very eager he have it that she would break a tradition of more than a half-decade's standing in order to belatedly tell him of its existence.  
  
"Who is it from?" he asked through a yawn, smothered just a little too late by the back of his hand.  
  
Maman reached for the purse hung on her belt, paused briefly, her nostrils flaring wide as she took a series of long, deep breaths, and then finally, and with obvious reluctance, drew a letter from it.  
  
"It's from your father," she said, her voice quavering with that same hesitation. "He writes to invite you to visit him in Lutetia."  
  
For a searing, agonising moment, Philippe hated his mother. Hated his maman who had loved him and protected him and nurtured him into manhood because she had kept this from him for so long, and he thought she would have kept him in ignorance of it still if she could. Hated her for the sake of a man to whom he had not spoken a single word for fourteen years.  
  
Heedless of his nakedness, the languor stink and dissolution of his body, he surged out of his bed and snatched the letter out of Maman's hand so violently that the envelope tore.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
As Philippe sits at his desk in the chambers that have been his one refuge in this dreary country that he has been forced to call home these past three months, that moment weighs as heavily on his mind as the invisible mantle of governorship does upon his unwilling shoulders.  
  
More than Maman's ashen face and her shocked gasp, he remembers her look of betrayal. She could scarcely believe that her beautiful golden boy, her _chaton_ , was capable of acting in such a vicious, brutish manner.  
  
He had reminded her, he now knows, of his father.  
  
On the occasion of his twenty-sixth birthday, the memory of that horrible moment is still as vivid as it had been on his twentieth, and every year that fell in between.  
  
At his feet lies the dark wooden chest that Maman had sent him to mark the day. It's a small thing, barely as long as his arm and no taller than the span of both of his outstretched hands, but she had managed to fit all of Gallia inside it.  
  
There is a wheel of Cosedian cheese, ripened to perfection over the course of its sea voyage; a long string of cured sausages from Lugdunum; two carafes filled with the finest vintage the finest winery in Burdigala has ever produced; a bottle of his favourite scent, created by the best perfumier in Lutetia; a posy of dried flowers plucked from Maman's gardens. A miniature of Philippe, Marie and Jean, painted in happier times.  
  
All these things any many more besides had been surmounted by a note, written in Maman's elegant hand: 'The next best cure for homesickness, _mon trésor_.'  
  
He has been forever denied the best cure as his father has promised to have him executed if he ever steps foot onto Gallian soil again. Maman's alternative is well-meaning, heartfelt, but what little comfort it gives him is nothing but cold.  
  
He wonders if he'll ever see her again. Father has threatened to end her life, too, if he were to ever suspect her of trying to aid Philippe's escape from this gilded cage he has been confined to, and she has always so hated this dank little island, besides.  
  
He wants to thank Maman for her thoughtfulness, nonetheless, and he wants to apologise for that moment which still shames him.  
  
But, as had happened on this date for the previous six years when the same desire assailed him in the same way, he cannot find the right words.  
  
He sits at his desk until his knuckles ache with the strain of the tight grip he keeps around his poised pen. Until the defeated slump of his back rouses his still-healing scars into caustic life once more, and the sky begins to darken with the coming night outside his window.  
  
He does not light his oil lamp, and he does not write a single line.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Marie and Jean were not quite two months old when Maman returned home to her family estate in Augustodunum; two tiny, wriggling bundles of noise and need who squalled almost without pause, as Philippe remembered it, throughout every long mile of that tiring and desperately sad journey from Lutetia.  
  
Neither had any conscious recollection of their father, and they came to know him only in the same way as any of his other subjects might.  
  
For the past eight years, Jean had scoured the newspapers and periodicals daily, looking for articles and reports that mentioned Father, even in passing. He diligently cut out those he found, and pasted them into the large, leather-bound book Maman had bought him for his sixth birthday, doubtless in the hopes that he might make it a repository for a more appealing collection, such as his drawings of the animals which visited the estate's grounds, or pressed wild flowers.  
  
On the eve of Philippe's departure for Lutetia, Jean brought this scrapbook out from its hiding place under his bed and proudly presented it to Philippe when the family retreated to the second-best drawing room after dinner.  
  
"I just thought we should all take a look at it before you go." Jean's eyes narrowed combatively. "You can't keep it, though."  
  
Aside from his pistol, Philippe knew the book was Jean's most prized possession. He gave him his solemn promise that, "I wouldn't dream of presuming otherwise, Jean."  
  
Clearly mollified, Jean's blue eyes and grin both grew wide under his mop of tousled blond hair.  
  
Maman had just lately become so tired of trying to bring any sort of order to Jean's unruly locks that she'd persuaded him to have them cut unfashionably short. To her horror, the disorder seemed even more pronounced without the benefit of volume to disguise it; exemplified in particular by the tuft that now pointed forever skyward just above his right eye.  
  
Between the cowlick and his excited expression, Philippe thought his little brother looked much younger than his fourteen years in that moment.  
  
It brought images of Jean's fierce childhood tantrums fresh to his mind, and thus he was careful to keep his touch even more light and gentle than was his typical wont when he placed the book down on a nearby occasional table.  
  
"Maman! Marie!" Jean cried out. "Come join us!"  
  
Their sister responded to his call with alacrity, but Maman shook her head and pronounced herself quite comfortably settled where she was, and absorbed in her own book, besides.  
  
"There is not enough room at that little table for either me or my skirts, _mes petits_ ," she demurred, "but, please, do not let my absence hinder you."  
  
Jean needed no more encouragement than that, and, after pushing Philippe's hand away with impatience when he too reached out towards it, reverentially opened his scrapbook.  
  
At the centre of the first page was an etching, yellowing with age and darkened in spots by the glue which had seeped up through the cheap, thin paper as it dried. It showed Father in his dress uniform sitting astride a pale horse which was rearing up, its front hooves striking out at some unseen foe.  
  
"He looks as though he's got an excellent seat," Marie said approvingly. She lived and breathed horses, spent every spare moment in the stable yard, and changed out of her riding clothes only for meals, no matter how often Maman scowled, sniffed, and complained about the lingering smell of manure. "I'm sure he's a fine rider. Am I right, Maman? Is he?"  
  
Maman did not reply. She never had a good word to say about their father, but, then again, she never had a bad one, either. So seldom did she talk of him, in fact, it was almost as if she had never known him at all, the three children living proof of their union notwithstanding.  
  
"Who cares about his seat, Marie," Jean said, turning to the next etching in his collection. "Look how well he fights!"  
  
The clipping showed Father on the battlefield, the point of his sword pressed against the chest of a fallen Germanic soldier who lay at his feet. The soldier's Pickelhaube was sinking into the mud beside them, and his coat was torn, but Father looked pristine and unruffled, the tiny lines that sketched out his face oddly serene.  
  
"'One of the greatest generals the Empire has ever seen,'" Jean read aloud from the text below the picture. "Two of the Gallian legions are stationed in Lutetia right now, you know. If you're lucky, Father might take you to train with them, Philippe. "  
  
Philippe didn't know, but then he paid very little attention to military matters. The entire subject bored him. "I shouldn't think he will do any such thing," he said. "What good would it do me, my first time with a sword in hand? The legionaries would cut me to ribbons in an instant."  
  
"You're a decent shot, though," Jean said. Supportiveness soon gave way to bravado, however, and he added, "Not as good as me, of course, but decent enough."  
  
He made a gun out of his index and forefinger, pointed it at Philippe's forehead, and then cocked it with his thumb.  
  
Philippe flinched gamely. "Of course," he agreed. "I will be sure to tell him that you would make a fine addition to his army, _mon frère._ I would not, I fear. There are many other things I hope to learn in Lutetia, however."  
  
Jean frowned in puzzlement. He had longed to join the Imperial army since he first picked up a pistol, and doubtless could not conceive that there was anything more important than fighting that Philippe might be taught at his father's side.  
  
"Like what?" he asked.  
  
Augustodunum was a beautiful city, and, more than that, it was Philippe's home, but he imagined it must be hopelessly provincial when compared to Gallia's capital.  
  
He wanted to learn of the latest fashions there, in dress, and entertainments, and thought. He wanted to be presented to the highest court in the land at last, and partake in its customs and ever-shifting allegiances.  
  
He wanted to learn what his father was like as a man, beyond what he chose to share with journalists and biographers.  
  
He wanted to learn whether he, in turn, was a man Father would be proud to call his son.  
  
"Everything there is to know," he said.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Every day after luncheon, Jean withdraws to the make-shift training hall Philippe had constructed in the cellars beneath his palace.  
  
If Philippe has no other more pressing engagements, he will accompany him, and stand at the very back of the room to watch him practice with his guns.  
  
Even with his hands pressed tight over his ears, each shot is whip-crack sharp and painfully loud, the noise resounding like thunder off the bare stone walls. Jean never seems to hear it, though; his focus unwavering in this place, even though it is a fickle thing everywhere else.  
  
Today, as every day, he hits each target dead centre with both pistol and rifle, and then offers Philippe a bright, sunny grin.  
  
Philippe cannot hear his voice over the ringing in his ears, but he doesn't even need to read his brother's lips to know what his question is when he asks it. It is invariably the same one.  
  
"I bet you didn't see shooting that good even when you were in the army, did you, Philippe?"  
  
"I did not," Philippe says. It is the simple truth, but it will not help his brother to hear it.  
  
As far as martial skills are concerned, their father cares for nothing but the sword. He considers guns the weapons of cowards and thinks little of them beyond some grudging admiration for their ruthless efficiency in battle. Jean's proficiency would not impress him.  
  
"Tell Father that in your next letter," Jean says as he always says. "Tell him I could prove it by besting any one of his officers in competition, if he'd like."  
  
All these years later, he is still desperate to fight for the Empire. He will not go against Maman's express wishes and enlist, but he knows that, if Father pressed the issue, she would have to capitulate, just as she did with Philippe.  
  
And he is still yearning for the same invitation Philippe was extended: to join their father in Lutetia. To be given the opportunity to prove himself to him.  
  
Philippe knows that invitation will never come. Their father's experience with Philippe has undoubtedly led him to believe that his and Maman's match had been more ill-favoured than he'd ever thought to believe before; that the well of their mingled blood was irretrievably poisoned.  
  
He has, by now, probably given up any hope he might once have had for all their children and washed his hands of Marie and Jean before even meeting them as adults. He likely maintains his thin veneer of interest in Philippe's doings beyond his work as governor solely in order to remind him that distance is no barrier to his attention, and that his eye is ever watchful. To punish him yet further for his past misdeeds by denying him the succour of complete indifference.  
  
"Of course," Philippe says, and, of course, he will do as his brother asks. He, at least, is keen not to disappoint Jean.  
  
He suspects his father's eyes will skim straight past the information without reading it, though.  


 

* * *

 

  
In Augustodunum, Philippe was chiefly addressed as Seigneur Bonnefoy, and on very rare occasions, by those either ill-informed or eager to flatter him, Duc.  
  
Although he never forgot that he was the son of the King of Gallia, somehow it kept slipping his mind that that meant he was also a prince.  
  
When the elderly servant who was awaiting his carriage's arrival at Father's palace greeted him with a florid bow and, " _Votre Altesse_ ," it was therefore as much a surprise as a delight to him.  
  
He whispered the honorific over and over to himself whilst he followed the stoop-backed man across the courtyard, testing how it sounded and felt in his mouth. It seemed an uneasy fit now, strange and unfamiliar, but he was certain it would grow comfortable with unbecoming speed.  
  
"I'm to take you straight through to see His Majesty," the servant said, pushing open the grand, ivory inlaid front door of the palace, the hinges and his joints both creaking. "He requests that you join him in his study."  
  
The exterior of the palace was widely held to be one of the finest examples of mid-Imperial architecture in all Europa, with its fine fluted columns, glistening white marble facade, and magnificent gilded central dome. Philippe had been expecting the interior to be equally breathtaking, but it seemed far darker than the high, arched windows would allow, and there was not a speck of decoration anywhere to be seen. No statues stood on the dull brown tiles underfoot, and the grey-green walls were bare of paintings.  
  
Each hallway the servant led him down was the same: dull, gloomy, and unadorned. Philippe footsteps echoed down them starkly.  
  
Eventually, they fetched up at an unprepossessing door, no different to any other they had passed before; its smooth oaken face free of all ornamentation save for a plain brass keyhole escutcheon and matching handle and door plate.  
  
At this, the servant rapped three times, and was answered by a voice crying out, "Enter."  
  
The nervousness that Philippe had thought he'd successfully mastered during his long journey returned to him threefold at the pronouncement. His stomach churned, and his legs seemed so heavy that he could not find the strength to lift them until the servant's prompting, "He does not like to be kept waiting, Your Highness," brought him back to himself and thence the realisation that the feeling was naught but an illusion.  
  
His sweat-soaked palm left a damp ghost imprint of itself upon the plate as he pushed the door open.  
  
He had expected Father to be seated at a desk, perhaps poring over a map or reviewing important documents, but instead he was standing not more than three paces away from the door, body held in the strangely stiff posture that Philippe had often seen the captain of Maman's guard adopt when he called one of his underlings to attention.  
  
Father's gaze was as calculating as the captain's, too, and Philippe suspected that he was been evaluated just as thoroughly as any of those guards. He tried to keep his head lowered against Father's scrutiny, because he knew that their being related did not exempt him from showing all the deference a King was due as his right, but he couldn't stop himself sneak a peek or two of his own, all propriety be damned.  
  
His memories of Father were those of a five-year-old, hazy and disjointed, and the stern sound of his voice had remained far clearer amongst them than the details of his form and face. It was something of a revelation, to discover that Father was maybe a little shorter than Philippe himself – though, as the heels of Father's boots were low, and Philippe's were most decidedly not, it was somewhat difficult to tell for sure – and significantly narrower across the shoulders.  
  
His face was long where Philippe's was round, blunt where his was pointed, but Philippe could see some small points of resemblance in the shape and colour of their eyes, and the curve of their cheekbones.  
  
"You're dressed in your finest, I presume," Father said at length.  
  
"Yes, Your Majesty. I—"  
  
"Enough," Father snapped, holding up one hand, palm flat and quelling. "We will have time enough to talk later. For now, I just want to take a proper look at you."  
  
So, Philippe bit his tongue as Father prowled around a slow circle around him, taking in his appearance from every angle. Though he was dressed in a newly purchased outfit, each item of which had been chosen with fastidious care – from the Gallian blue waistcoat embroidered with their family's crest and colours, down to the mirror-fine polish on his boots – he still worried that he would be found wanting somehow, as he had no clear idea of what his father might consider clothing becoming a man of his age and station.  
  
Whatever that was, Philippe had obviously fallen wide of the mark, despite his best efforts.  
  
"Find him something more suitable to wear," Father called out to the still-waiting servant, "And call for my barber. His hair will have to be cut short before he's brought to see me again."  


 

* * *

 

  
   
Even four months after Philippe first took up residence in it, the governor's palace is still very much a work in progress.  
  
Despite the many hundreds of men and women who had toiled, day and night, on restoring the building and grounds to make them fit for human habitation once more, it was a task far too vast for the eight weeks of notice Philippe had been able to give prior to his move.  
  
He had only had nine, himself.  
  
The northwest wing is covered in scaffolding, manned by a team of masons, carpenters and builders who are desperately trying to reverse its slow, relentless slide into a pile of rubble, and the northeast wing, though wallpapered and carpeted, is as of yet completely uninhabited.  
  
Crates still arrive daily, containing ledgers and official accoutrements from the old governor's mansion in Eboracum; statuary from Roma; Philippe's own clothes, books and sentimental knickknacks from Augustodunum; new furniture and fittings ordered from Londinium; and all manner of other luxuries and necessities besides, sent from all four corners of the Empire.  
  
Even so, Philippe has never before received a package whose label denotes it as having originated from the Lutetian royal palace, and he finds himself very unwilling to discover what lurks within it. His sole consolation is that the crate is far too small to conceal his father, coiled ready to spring out the moment M. Jansen lifts the lid, and thereafter to pour scorn on Philippe's decorating choices.  
  
"We weren't awaiting any deliveries from Lutetia. There's nothing in the records," his secretary says, glaring intently at the papers in his hands as though expecting that the pertinent information might suddenly manifest itself there if only he disapproved of this intolerable, disorganised state of affairs hard enough.  
  
"Nevertheless, we can hardly just leave it here, cluttering up the place, M. Jansen," Philippe says. "Shipping crates are not really in keeping with the aesthetic I had in mind. Unexpected or not, I think we should open it. "  
  
Although M. Jansen's eyebrows twitch upwards and his lips part ever so slightly, no further objection is forthcoming. With evident reluctance, he puts his clipboard aside and picks up the crowbar which is for the moment a permanent fixture in the entranceway, aesthetics be damned.  
  
He handles the tool as though he's been charged with scooping up manure without the benefit of gloves, nostrils flared and fingers picking fastidiously across the metal as he tries to find the best grip on it. He looks like a man who's never been asked to perform physical labour before, and considers it beneath him, even though Philippe has noticed before that his hands are heavily calloused, and not in the pattern of one habituated to wielding nothing weightier than a pen.  
  
He's never asked M. Jansen what they had been caused by, as experience has taught him that the man no more cares to talk about his past than he does any aspect of his present that is not circumscribed by his role at the palace. Questions about such things are very politely, but very firmly ignored. It's almost as if he was only created two years ago, fully formed at the age of twenty-four, to become Lord Churchfield's secretary. Had Philippe not seen M. Jansen travel down into Deva on his free afternoons, he would have suspected that he simply ceased to exist for a while when there was no work for him to do.  
  
Despite the secretary's grimace of distaste, he pries the crate's lid free very efficiently when he does finally take the crowbar to it; a display of brute strength quite out of proportion with his scrawny arms and narrow shoulders.  
  
"It looks like another painting, Your Highness," M. Jansen says. "The packing straw's covering most of it, so I'm afraid all I can see is that it has a plain wooden frame." He squints his eyes contemplatively. "Perhaps mahogany?"  
  
Philippe had left nothing of any personal interest or value behind in Lutetia. "That doesn't ring any bells," he says, "but I imagine the canvas itself will shed more light on the matter. If you would, M. Jansen."  
  
After a few abortive attempts to manoeuvre the bulky frame out of the top of the crate, M. Jansen concedes defeat and sets about making judicious use of his crowbar again between the boards that make up its side. As the wood falls away, and the packing straw seeps out through the resultant gaps, the painting is slowly but surely revealed in small, disjointed patches of detail: a shock of blond hair here, an epaulette and firm jawline there.  
  
It's the eyes that make Philippe's heart race; that make a wave of dizzying heat wash over him. Those pale blue eyes staring out at him with that all too familiar expression of mingled superciliousness and disapproval.  
  
It seems his father had stowed himself away in the crate after all.  
  
The thought is almost ridiculous as the instinctive sense of dread the sight of the man's face had awoken in him, despite knowing full well that it was nothing but oil paint and could no more hurt him than he could disappoint it, no matter what the sternness of its mien might suggest.  
  
As such, Philippe can't help but laugh at himself, and M. Jansen gives him a look that, by dint of being a degree or so softer than his usual, is likely meant to telegraph concern.  
  
"I was just a little shocked," Philippe says blithely. Even in the event he was willing to share such private failings with his secretary, he doubts the man would find them amusing. If he has a sense of humour, or even a rudimentary understanding of the purpose of jokes, Philippe has yet to see any evidence of it. "I certainly wasn't expecting... this."  
  
"Nonetheless, it's a worthwhile addition to the palace, Your Highness," M. Jansen says. He takes a step back from the painting and tilts his head, presumably so he can better take in the full, bone-chilling effect of the composition as a whole. "You'd managed to track down portraits of every Imperial King of Gallia, save for one of the current incumbent, had you not?"  
  
A deliberate omission, and Philippe wonders if his father had heard of it and taken umbrage, or if this delivery was sent for no reason other than to rattle him.  
  
"Indeed," he says, regretting his decision to mention his efforts in amassing his collection in his last letter his father. If nothing else, the man is incredibly skilled in turning even the smallest titbit of personal information into a very personal attack and does so like to keep Philippe on his toes. "How very considerate of my father to aid me in my endeavours. Please write and thank him for me, M. Jansen."  
  
"Of course," M. Jansen says, bowing. "Where shall I order the painting to be hung, Your Highness?"  
  
 Down one of the privies is Philippe's first thought, at the centre of a bonfire, his second. Both would be incredibly satisfying, no doubt, but also incredibly foolish. Disrespecting the likeness of an Imperial official is considered treason, and Philippe doubts he'd survive another accusation of that crime. He is in less danger in Deva than he could ever have been in Eboracum, but he is not safe. His father would come to know of his actions somehow, and he would not be lenient enough to stop at flogging a second time.  
  
 "That little drawing room in the northwest wing will be perfect, I imagine," he says.  
  
"No-one uses that room, Your Highness," M. Jansen says, his eyes widening slightly. "It hasn't been furnished yet."  
  
There's no better place for his father, to Philippe's mind. Nobody's liable to stumble across him unwitting and unprepared there, and he can just scowl at an empty wall for all eternity, sparing the rest of them.  
  
"That's exactly why it is perfect," he says, giving the secretary a false smile so broad that it makes the hinge of his jaw ache. "That way I can decorate around him, and make sure he's given a setting he deserves."  
  
 

 

* * *

 

  
  
There must have been some kind of mistake, Philippe thought. Some miscommunication, or a note gone astray.  
  
"This is to be my room?" he asked the old servant, who had never been more than two steps away from his side throughout his first hour in Father's home.  
  
 He had hoped to trigger a memory of the true order he was sure the man must have been given, or else a realisation of his error. He would even have even welcomed laughter, and the discovery that this had all been a joke at his expense.  
  
The servant's countenance did not alter, however; did not lighten with either mirth or revelation. He looked at Philippe with the same blank-eyed disinterest with which he had watched both Philippe's meeting with Father, and his subsequent torment at the hands of the royal barber.  
  
"Yes, Your Highness," the servant said. "Your luggage is being unloaded from the carriage. It will be brought to you shortly."  
  
With that, he bowed with a fluidity Philippe would have thought him incapable of, given the shambling progress the two of them had made around the palace, and hurried away, leaving Philippe alone for the first time to explore his surroundings unfettered.  
  
Not that such an undertaking could take more than a moment of his time. The chamber that was apparently, unbelievably, to be his for so long as Father chose to keep him in Lutetia was smaller than his dressing room in Augustodunum.  
  
There were only four pieces of furniture, all made in the same plain style: a blocky chest of drawers, wardrobe, desk and narrow bed. At one side of the bed was a commode, and the other, a white porcelain basin set in a dull brass stand. Given the lack of any other doors leading off from the room, Philippe supposed they were supposed to serve him in the stead of a private bathroom.  
  
Above the basin hung a mirror, no more than a foot in length and tarnished with age. It drew Philippe towards it like a lodestone at the same time as it repelled him. Caught between two such opposing forces, he found he could do nothing save try and distract himself from its presence and the heavy weight it pressed on his mind.  
  
He fed some more coal into the fire in the grate, which made the flames splutter and spark though they did not grow appreciably larger, gazed out of the room's single window onto an uninspiring view of a small ornamental pond whose waters appeared to be completely choked by duckweed, and then finally smoothed a hand over the already pristine blue quilt laid out on the bed.  
  
This last action brought him perilously close to the mirror once more, and having now stripped the rest of the room bare of any possible diversions, he reluctantly allowed himself to succumb to its seductive lure.  
  
The barber had performed his nefarious work with Philippe seated in front of a huge mirror that spanned most of the length of one wall, held up another to show him the back of his head, and though Philippe had smiled and pronounced himself very happy with the cut, his eyes had been closed throughout.  
  
For all the years he had lived in Augustodunum, he had worn his hair long as had been the fashion of the region since Maman herself was a child, and he thus had no recollection of what it felt or looked like short.  
  
He had no recourse against the novel sensation of cool air prickling across the back of his neck, but he could, as he did, postpone the epiphany of his appearance until such time as he was alone and not beset by the shrewd scrutiny of Father's men.  
  
If it was the shock he feared it might be, then, at least, no word of his reaction would reach Father's ears.  
  
When first he risked taking a glance at his reflection, he barely recognised it as his own. He, like Jean, seemed much younger; made a boy once again after less than a month as a man.  
  
His face looked rounder, less defined, without the line of his hair drawing the eye down. His nose, conversely, looked more pointed without its softening shadows. And, like the sheep the villanus tended on Maman's estate lands come summer, he had been shorn so closely that he could see patches of skin in between the stubble that remained.  
  
Far more disagreeable than any of that, though, were his ears. He had forgotten quite how prominent they were; slightly oversized and fixed at an awkwardly wide angle instead lying almost flush against his head.  
  
The gold and sapphire earrings Maman had gifted him for his eighteenth birthday, that he had always thought were exquisitely beautiful, and served as a wonderful complement to his eyes due to their hue and lustre, now only seemed to attract attention to this most unsightly of features.  
  
With a heavy heart, he removed them, and then placed them atop the chest of drawers; the first piece of himself laid out in this otherwise characterless room.  
  
Despite their fine appearance and bright, vibrant colours, they did not brighten it one iota. Like a single match struck in an effort to banish the darkness, they instead seemed to be swallowed up and smothered by it.  
  
 They looked lost.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
_... Nine, ten, eleven..._

  
  
"Do you really spend this long on your hair every day?"  
  
Philippe shifts his focus slightly, so his eyes meet the reflection of his sister's in the mirror hung above the sink. She is sitting on the edge of the bath, fresh from an afternoon spent in the stable yard, and still dressed in grass-stained riding breeches, and an oversized brown shirt and equally shapeless grey jacket. Her filthy boots have left smears of mud – and likely other sticky brown substances much more unpleasant to contemplate – across the otherwise pristine white tiles of Philippe's private bathroom, marking a clear trail of her progress between the door and tub. He can't even bear to contemplate the ruin she's doubtless made of the carpeting in the hallway.  
  
Maman would likely be reaching for the smelling salts if she knew that her only daughter and heir was traipsing around an Imperial palace, in full view of the servants and any dignitaries who might happen to be passing by, looking like a stable hand. Philippe will not be the one to tell her of it, though. He is happy to be able to offer Marie this small freedom, one that she has been denied of late in her own home. It might persuade her to stay in his longer.  
  
"Twice a day, at least," Philippe says. "Fifty strokes each time, just as Maman taught us."

  
  
_... Eighteen, nineteen, twenty..._

  
  
Marie's nose wrinkles. "I don't know how you have the patience. I can never be bothered with it."  
  
Her hair is roughly scraped back into a loose tail; flaxen curls spilling out every which way in front, and a frizzy, tangled mess behind.  
  
"Yes, that much is evident." Philippe tilts his head to give Marie the prim, pursed-lipped look that their nurse, Mme. Dufour, used to fix her with whenever she did something the old woman considered indecorous.  
  
Marie scowls with mock ferocity at the insult and grabs a large tablet of soap from the basket set at the end of the bath. She weighs it up in her hand, as though judging its potential worth as a projectile weapon.

  
  
_... Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six..._

  
  
"I wouldn't if I were you," Philippe says, turning his gaze back to the mirror. "Assaulting an Imperial governor is considered a minor act of treason. I could have you put in the stocks."  
  
His sister obviously considers this an empty threat, as she soon lets the soap fly. It sails deliberately wide, and misses Philippe by a good margin, ending its languid arc by bouncing harmlessly off the side of the water closet.  
  
Philippe tuts disapprovingly. "So, it's to be attempted assault of an Imperial governor, then? I think the punishment for that should be accompanying your brother to dine with his guests this evening, _ma petite_."  
  
Marie groans, her shoulders slumping. "I thought Jean was on duty today."  
  
"He was, but, alas, he was stricken by a dreadful illness late this morning and has since had to retire to his chambers."  
  
"Let me guess; an acute bout of malingering?"  
  
"The worst case I've ever seen," Philippe says, sighing dolefully. "So sad, to be cut down in the prime of his life." In a more serious tone, he adds, "I can hardly remove him from his 'sickbed' by force, though, so I find myself at a bit of a loss of how to proceed. Other than turning to my darling sister for aid, of course."  
  
"This is blackmail, Philippe," Marie says, her voice low and breathy with feigned horror.  
  
"Blackmail is such an ugly word." Philippe winces. "I prefer to think that I'm simply throwing myself at the mercy of your kind and tender heart in the hour of my direst need. If there were any other alternative, I would surely take it and spare you."

  
  
_... Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty._

  
  
Whilst Marie ponders his proposition, Philippe sets his brush down and studies the results of his labours. Maman had always said that the hundred brushstrokes she prescribed daily promoted blood flow to the scalp and thus improved both the health and growth of hair.  
  
Despite his sister's obvious cynicism regarding the practice, Philippe is inclined to believe in its efficacy. Over the course of the year following his father's decision to stop policing its length, his hair has grown to become almost at a level with his chin and shines like gold once more. To his continued annoyance, it is just as curly as it ever was before he was shorn, but otherwise he is quite pleased with its progress.  
  
"All right, I'll do it, then," Marie suddenly huffs out on a peevish-sounding sigh. "But Jean has to attend the next _two_ dinners with you. No excuses."  
  
"Thank you, Marie," Philippe says, beaming at her in gratitude. "You know how dull I find these occasions when I have to face them without the pleasure of your company to distract me. You can consider yourself the saviour of my sanity, and also the new owner of that fine bay mare you've had your eye on."  
  
Marie's smile of delight is both spontaneous and honest, but it's soon schooled into submission, quickly replaced by reddened cheeks and an abashed expression. "Philippe, I... No, that's too much. I couldn't possibly..."  
  
"Nonsense," Philippe says, waving her concerns aside with a brisk flap of his hand. "I don't think two dinners is repayment enough for such a sacrifice. I've heard that Lord Mason is infamous in his own circle for being particularly tedious company. A terrifying prospect, I'm sure you'll agree, considering how wearisome the rest of the nobility of this town have proven to be."  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Philippe had not managed to snatch more than a scattered handful of minutes of sleep from all the dark hours of the night.  
  
His new bed creaked and shook alarmingly whenever shifted his weight, putting him in fear of its imminent collapse, and the thin mattress was so unevenly stuffed that it felt as though it was filled with rocks in some spots, and nothing but air in others. Around three o'clock, he had unfurled himself from his quilt, tightly wound around his body to protect it from the air's chill kiss, and inspected the bed frame inch by painstaking inch, to reassure himself that there were no obvious defects or weaknesses in its construction.  
  
As he had little idea of how such things were normally put together, his examination did nothing to help ease his mind into a state of restfulness.  
  
The rising of the sun found him gritty-eyed and woolly-headed, barely able to find either the breath or the will to answer the knock at his door with a wavering, "Yes?", never mind the scathing excoriation he would have liked  to deliver to whomsoever saw fit to disturb him at such an ungodly hour.  
   
The servant's reply made him very thankful that he'd lacked the wherewithal for more.  
  
"His Majesty demands your immediate presence in his study, Your Highness."  
  
He doubted that Father would have taken kindly to his messenger being responded to in such a boorish fashion.  
  
As he washed and dressed, he was fleetingly glad, too, for the orders Father had issued the previous day. Overcoming the fatigued tremble of his hands for long enough to slip on the loose shirt and trousers he'd been provided with was onerous enough, he shuddered to think how long it might have taken him to fumble with all the buttons and ties that fastened his preferred, many-layered outfits, and likely everything would have ended up disgracefully rumpled, besides.  
  
Absent the snarled curls that would usually blight his mornings, his newly close-cropped hair required just as little attention as his clothes. From start to finish, the entire process took him less than two minutes; not quite immediate, but close enough to it, he hoped, to satisfy Father.  
  
His entrance to the study a moment later was greeted with neither praise nor censure, however. Father looked up from the papers spread across his desk but briefly, and if the change in Philippe's appearance pleased him at all, he did not see fit to make mention of it.  
  
Instead, he slid one of his documents towards Philippe, and said, "Translate that for me."  
  
Philippe quailed a little at the sight of it. Even at a glance, he could tell it was written in High Imperial, of which he knew no more than the odd word that had made its way, unaltered, into the common discourse of Roma. It was a dying language now, used only in seminaries and the Imperial law courts, and as Philippe was bound for neither, Maman had not considered his learning it worthwhile.  
  
Not wanting to disappoint Father at such an early stage in their renewed acquaintance, Philippe struggled to voice this admission. "I... I..."  
  
"'I... I...'," Father mimicked, matching Philippe's diffident tone precisely. "If you cannot read it, just tell me so. I'll not stand for any stammering and prevaricating, boy. Always speak boldly, even if it is to admit your ignorance. If you're not sure of yourself, no-one else will be."  
  
He held Philippe's eyes steadily as Philippe breathed deep and slow, calming his nerves so he could then speak, "I cannot read it, Your Majesty," without a hint of hesitation.  
  
"Do you read any other tongue save your own?" Father asked, his gaze dropping to desk again.  
  
"Yes, Your Majesty," Philippe said proudly, sure that, in this, at least, he was on firmer ground. His tutors had always lauded his facility with languages. "Trade, of course, as well as Low Imperial and Luisitanian. I have a working knowledge of both Old Brittonic and Old Gallian, though I cannot claim to be fluent in either."  
  
Father scoffed, clearly unimpressed. "The army's high command still uses High Imperial to issue orders to its officers. You would have done better to learn it before any of the others."  
  
That information would not have swayed Maman from her decision, whether she was aware of it or not, as Philippe was never bound for the army, either. He supposed that Father, being a military man to his core, considered it of far greater import, though, so Philippe readily offered the lie that: "I would, Your Majesty."  
  
This seeming agreement earned him a curt nod, and another question, "So, what else did your mother teach you, then?"  
  
Philippe had been expecting this one, at least. He took another long breath before starting to recite the answer he had already prepared. "Drawing and painting, natural philosophy and history—"  
  
"Did you concentrate on any aspect of history in particular?" Father interrupted him to ask.  
  
Maman believed that breadth was the more important quality than depth when it came to the teaching of that subject. "No, Your Majesty."  
  
Father lifted one hand and twirled in a lazy circle; an obvious cue for Philippe to continue his list.  
  
"The harpsichord and flute," Philippe said. "Cookery and needlework, marksmanship and—"  
"Rifle, pistol, or bow and arrow?"  
  
"All three. I have been told that—"  
  
"And all three equally useless," Father said with a derisive snort. "Coward's weapons, the lot of them. A person's true mettle in battle is only tested when they meet their enemy eye to eye. How are you with a sword?"  
  
Philippe had expected this question, too. Expected and dreaded it. "I have never even held one in my hand, Your Majesty," he reluctantly admitted.  
  
"Enough!" Father emphasised the word by slamming down both hands, clenched into fists, in front of him. The double blow was so firmly dealt that Philippe was astounded that the desk did not break in two beneath it. "I have heard enough. She has not sent me a man, but a half-formed boy! She did you a disservice; your education has clearly been lacking.  
  
"I'll send for tutors in High Imperial, military history, and swordplay. As soon as they arrive, we'll set about rectifying its deficiencies."  


 

* * *

 

  
  
By necessity and habit, Philippe's bedchamber is plainly furnished and undecorated save for the map of Deva he had commissioned before taking up his appointment as Governor of Northern Britannia.  
  
The one indulgence he allows himself is his bed, whose mattress is a foot and a half thick, packed with soft wool, and wide enough to fit three comfortably, should Philippe ever be in the position again to indulge himself in that way, too.  
  
His sheets are made from the finest linen, almost as smooth as silk; his quilts numerous, each one on its own heavy enough to withstand even the bitterest Brittonic winter night; and his pillows as plump and soft as spring clouds.  
  
It's a nest. A cocoon. Safety. He's eager to sink into it at night, loath to leave it come morning.  
  
Still, he rises not long after dawn every day, and with far greater ease than he ever did in Lutetia.  
  
Perhaps because the hours he keeps are now both his choice and his duty, and not a command he is compelled to obey, handed down from on high.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Philippe's bed seemed to cradle him like a lover's arms when he fell into it; soft and warm for the very first time since he'd been sentenced to serve out his nights in it.  
  
Anything would be comfortable, though, in comparison to the misery of moving, of standing, and sitting, and speaking, and thinking. Even breathing is its own form of agony, though one he must perforce learn to endure even supine.  
  
His tutors in swordplay had arrived today and brought with them gruelling exercises meant to limber up his joints, quicken his reflexes, and build his strength and stamina. They gave no quarter to his inexperience, ignored his cries of pain.  
  
Every muscle he possessed ached, even those he had hitherto been unaware existed. The skin of his back and thighs tingled and stung in a way that promised bruises come morrow, shaped in the form of blunted practice blades.  
  
He thought he could easily sleep for the rest of the week, and perhaps into the next.  
  
"When I said you should retire to your bed at a more reasonable hour, I did not mean directly after dinner."  
  
A fortnight's residence in Lutetia had taught Philippe that a closed door offered no guarantee of privacy even in his personal quarters, as Father never extended the courtesy of knocking if he thought his business sufficiently pressing. Whilst still unable to predict the timing of such intrusions, Philippe had come to expect them, so the sound of Father's voice came as no particular surprise to him.  
  
"Your Majesty, I fear I am—"  
  
"I don't want to hear any of your excuses," Father snapped. "You still haven't finished the chapters of Moretti's _Tactics_ you were assigned, have you?"  
  
"No, but—"  
  
"But nothing. You're too far behind on your reading, as it is. I want that book finished by tomorrow, boy. We'll discuss what you've learnt before we take our breakfast."  
  
Which is scheduled for seven o'clock, meaning Philippe will be rising at dawn yet again. He stifled his groan of protest, because Father, like the tutors he had hired, would give short shrift to Philippe's claims of exhaustion.  
  
And as Father remained unmoving after giving his order, Philippe could not nourish himself with so much an extra moment's dubious comfort.  
  
Although his body protested every inch of the way, he pushed himself upright and then hobbled, haltingly, to his desk.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Blades still do not sit easily in Philippe's hand, even after seven years of his daily routine.  
  
At the start of it, he had lacked both condition and cushioning calluses, ending each session with his palms torn and muscles aching, and later, once he had become habituated to its rhythms, the unchanging patterns became numbing to both mind and body.  
  
Now, whenever he draws sword from scabbard, he remembers the clamour and stink of combat, the sun-bright warmth of arterial spray splashing against his skin, and how sickeningly simple it can be to end a person's life.  
  
Nonetheless, he practices his drills with the same diligence as he ever did in Lutetia and the bloodied and battle-churned mud of the fields around Argentoratum. He blocks and parries the thrusts of invisible enemies with a zeal equal to the days when Signors Ricci and Silvestri called out their critiques on his every move – 'Focus! You are here to fight, not take in the sights!'; 'I think His Highness must be wearing his lead boots again this morning. Move those feet!' – and sent regular reports of his progress on to the king.  
  
Without a physical opponent to test himself against, he feels his blade-work is becoming sloppy, his reflexes dulled, but no Devan sword master will take him on as a pupil, fearing charges of treason if he were to be injured when they sparred. Jean and Marie are as ignorant of the sword as Philippe had been when first he arrived at his father's home, and cannot aid him.  
  
"I don't know why you bother with it, anyway," Jean has often said in the past. "You know better than I do that warfare's changing. You'd be better off honing your skills with a pistol again. Your aim's got terrible."  
  
Philippe is certain that Jean's advice, for once, is perfectly sound, but these rhythms have become as much part of him as his own heartbeat.  
  
And, somehow, they feel just as vital.  


 

* * *

 

  
Philippe's daylight hours were given over to his tutors, his evenings to assigned readings. For the most part.  
  
Despite all his fanciful dreams of court life in Lutetia, Father's home was a silent, solemn place. He threw no parties or balls and attended those of others solely when he was duty-bound to do so for political reasons. The social epicentre of Lutetian high society had shifted in recent years from the _palais impérial_ to the opposite bank of the Sequana and the far smaller _château de la douairière_ , in which Philippe's half-sister, Isabel, had taken up residence following her marriage.  
  
Very occasionally, Father would host small gatherings which Philippe was ordered rather than invited to attend. Even though he had tired of reading about ambushes and infiltration, phalanxes and fortifications quite some time ago, if the decision had been his to make, Philippe would have chosen to continue his studying.  
  
Father's guests were invariably army officers – Magisters, Dux, and Legates – and their conversation was invariably of a militaristic bent. After dinner, they would retire to one of the drawing rooms to drink brandy, and talk of training, strategy, and rising tensions along the border with Germania.  
  
They drew Philippe close, tapped at his chest with a finger or the stem of their pipes, and waxed lyrical about the great battles they had fought in when they were his age, their eyes growing misty with nostalgia. It had been the making of them, they always said. They wouldn't have become the man or woman they were today if they hadn't been tempered in the crucible of war.  
  
As he'd never had the opportunity to hear their like first-hand before, Philippe had found such tales strangely fascinating at first; intrigued by how the attrition of years could grind all the harsh edges from memories full of fear and blood, polishing them until they shone.  
  
Their interest soon palled, as Philippe became more and more acutely aware of how ghoulish it was that they could smile and even laugh over the thought of such carnage and slaughter, simply because they happened to emerge on the winning side.  
  
After being subjected to six long months of them, these tête-à-têtes now nauseated Philippe. Father served more elaborate meals than his typical wont when entertaining his officers, and the rich food sat very uneasily in his stomach when combined with the thick pipe-smoke curling deep in his lungs, and a low voice in his ear, purring about the great glory to be found in butchering strangers in the name of the Empire.  
  
Nevertheless, he still smiled and pretended pleasure to hear it, because Father was always near at hand, his ears keen and eyes ever watchful.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
All of the personal correspondence Philippe takes delivery of has been penned by Maman and chronicles the latest happenings in Augustodonum in such exhaustive detail that it's almost akin to having experienced them firsthand.  
  
As his siblings are just as eager to hear such news as Philippe himself, he has taken to reading these letters aloud whilst he, Marie, and Jean drink their digestifs in the rose drawing room after dinner, in order that they can enjoy them together and thereafter dissect any gossip they contain down to its bones.  
  
So used is he to this state of affairs that he doesn't bother to look closely at the one envelope that had arrived in that afternoon's post, addressed to him and not his title, until the very moment he is poised and ready to open it.  
  
Maman's hand had not written the directions, and the postmark is Roman.  
  
Philippe's fingers tremble a little, and his breath quickens. It has been so very long since he was last sent a letter of a more intimate nature – the sort that he would want to savour at his leisure and, most importantly, in perfect solitude – that he had never thought to consider the possibility of receiving one.  
  
Thanks to his father, he and Giorgia had parted on such poor terms that Philippe had been convinced that he would never hear from her again. But here in his hand, surely, is the evidence that she does not curse his name even now, and that he has not been forgotten. Who else in Roma would want to write to him?  
  
"Is it a love letter?" Jean asks, breaking through Philippe's reverie.  
  
"No," he answers immediately. "Of course not. It's..."  
  
Flustered, he cannot think of any other reasonable explanation for his hesitation, and Jean and Marie exchange amused glances in the resulting silence.  
  
"I can't imagine what else would make you blush like that," Jean says with a horribly knowing smirk. "Well, whatever it is, you'd clearly prefer to be on your own with it, so Marie and I'll make ourselves scarce."  
  
He offers Philippe an exaggerated wink, and Marie exhorts him to, "Tell us all the juicy details later," before both take their leave of him.  
  
Philippe listens to their retreating footsteps carefully, and as soon as they've faded from earshot, he raises the envelope to his nose in the vain hope of catching some vestige of Giorgia's scent clinging to the paper.  
  
All he can smell is the usual miasma of a long voyage: dust, sweat and perhaps a faint hint of sea spray.  
  
That disappointment is compounded by yet another when he finally extracts the letter and discovers within its first line that it had not been written by Giorgia, after all. The feeling is short-lived, though, as it soon becomes clear that not only is its author Prince Francesco, but, better yet, that he and his brother, Giovanni, fully intend on paying a visit to Deva if Philippe would be kind enough to extend them an invitation to do so.  
  
Giorgia, Francesco and Giovanni had been the only rays of light Philippe had had to sustain him through the dark days he had spent in Roma with his father, but he'd believed his connection with his cousins was just as thoroughly severed as that he had once shared with Giorgia.  
  
The Emperor himself had seemed to think quite highly of Philippe, and certainly encouraged his youngest sons' friendship with him, but Philippe had expected that his father would have done his level best to discourage his half-brother's 'misguided' partiality after what happened in Germania.  
  
He had expected to never be allowed to keep company with his cousins again, but perhaps his uncle might care for him still, despite whatever poison has lately been dripping in his ear.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Philippe had been residing in Lutetia for almost eleven months when he received his first invitation to visit Isabel.  
  
He duly presented the gold-edged card to Father and asked his permission to accept, even though he anticipated nothing less than an unequivocal refusal in return.  
  
Father barely glanced at the card, which seemed answer enough, but as Philippe started to turn away from his desk, he surprised him by saying, "She has been asking to make your acquaintance from the very moment she heard of your arrival, and I've grown tired of hearing the same damn question every time we meet. You may take four hours for yourself that night, but if your studies suffer at all as a consequence, you will not be allowed that privilege again. Do you understand?"  
  
"I understand, Your Majesty." Philippe kept his voice steady and his expression serene, just as Father preferred, but his heart soared like a bird that the cage of his ribs could scarcely contain. "I will not disappoint you."  
  
His life had become so thoroughly circumscribed by the high walls that enclosed the palace grounds that the prospect of a quiet family dinner with his half-sister, her husband and their children, was one that he looked forward to with far more excitement than he'd ever felt in anticipation of attending even the grandest gala events in Augustodonum.  
  
By the time that his carriage was rattling down the gravelled driveway of the _château de la douairière_ , however, most of that joy had turned to dread.  
  
He had pulled his 'finest' out of storage several days ago in preparation of this night, and although the time the clothes had spent airing at his window had rid them of the mustiness and stink of mothballs that had clung to the fabric, he does not feel entirely comfortable wearing them,  
  
They were the very height of fashion when he'd purchased them in Augustodonum, but they may well have been several months out of date by Lutetian standards, even then. That detail, he imagined, would not escape his half-sister's eye, nor would the strange patina that now covered the leather of his boots, despite Father's servants' best efforts at scrubbing it away.  
  
He felt, for the first time, like a poor relation; come begging at Isabel's table for scraps. Scraps of what, though, he couldn't quite be sure.  
  
*****  
  
His arrival was met not by the butler of footman, but the princesse herself, who somehow managed to stand tall, proud and regal as she awaited him despite the two small children who were trying their hardest to hide themselves beneath the voluminous skirts of her midnight blue dress.  
  
Philippe had worried that he would not recognise her, but he could see in an instant the echoing traces of the eleven year-old-girl he once known in her adult form.  
  
Father's first wife had been a Luisitanian duchess, and Isabel had inherited her mother's dark hair and olive skin, though not her soft and delicate features. Her nose, like Father's – like Philippe's – was long and her chin shared the sharp angles of his.  
  
Her eyes had nothing in common with Father's, or with the beautiful woman whose portrait still hung in Father's study. They looked almost amber in the pale light of the lamps hung around the château's front door, and their expression was as warm as their colour.  
  
She pulled Philippe into a tight, lavender-scented embrace before he'd even finished alighting from the carriage, and then attempted to spin him around as she used to when they were both children together.  
  
"Look how tall you are now, _mon cher_!" she said, laughing when her efforts came to naught. "And so handsome, too! The last time I saw you, you had a little snub nose like a piglet, and a head covered in ringlets to match!"  
  
She took a step back from Philippe, her gaze sweeping up to appraise the current state of his hair. Her mouth pinched closed afterwards, which made her opinion on the appearance of his fuzzy scalp abundantly clear. Thankfully, she was kind enough not to voice it.  
  
"We have so much to catch up on," she continued smoothly. "But first, I must introduce you to your nephew and niece. Come" – she deftly untangled the children's hands from her dress and urged them forward – "say hello to your Uncle Philippe."  
  
The children – a little boy of around four years of age, and a girl who could be no more than two – blinked up at him suspiciously and said nothing.  
  
"This is Philippe," Isabel said, nodding towards the boy. "Named after great-grandfather, just like you. And this is Marianne, named after no-one in particular. I just liked how it sounded!"  
  
Neither Marianne or little Philippe reacted to the sound of their names.  
  
Thinking that they were perhaps intimidated by him towering over them, Philippe knelt, and then offered them both an awkward bob of his head, which was the best he could manage by way of a bow without toppling over.  
  
" _Bonsoir_ , Philippe," he said, smiling at his namesake, and then to his niece, " _Bonsoir_ , Marianne."  
  
The children's response this time was instantaneous. Little Philippe raced away like a hare to hide behind his maman once more, and Marianne's tiny mouth opened on a wail so loud and full of feeling that it would put a professional opera singer to shame.  
  
Isabel laughed again, patted both of her children consolingly on the top of their heads, and then extended one hand to Philippe to help him to his feet. "They're just a bit shy at the moment," she said. "They'll warm up to you soon enough once they get to know you."  
  
"And I very much want to get to know them, so I hope four hours will prove long enough to achieve such a thing. I'm afraid I can't stay any longer tonight," Philippe said apologetically.  
  
Isabel's mouth contracted again, and her grip around Philippe's hand tightened almost to the point of pain. When she spoke, however, her voice was just as blithe as before.  
  
"Do you really think I'd be content with just one evening of your time?" she asked. "Ah, no, _mon frère_ , you will not escape that easily. I intend to ask Father to make this a regular appointment for you, no matter how much you might object to it!"  
  


* * *

 

  
The newly completed ballroom is brilliant in what Philippe feels to be the truest sense of the word: jewel-bright and shimmering with light and reflected light all the way up to the highest point of the vaulted ceiling. It's like standing in the centre of a briolette cut emerald.  
  
It had seemed a shame to mar the pure clarity of its beauty by inviting people to enter it, but invite them Philippe must, or so M. Jansen had insisted.  
  
Philippe had thought that his personal touch was welcomed, that the noble families hereabouts had appreciated that he entertained them with quiet dinners where they were the only guests and they could converse on more intimate terms. To the contrary, he was informed that the previous incumbent of his position had arranged parties and balls and reviews near weekly for the high society of Eboracum, and the good people of Deva had been expecting that he would do the same for them.  
  
Governor Russo, to hear his secretary tell it, had been a virtual saint amongst men, and had left Philippe with the very loftiest of standards to live up to.  
  
Not wanting to disappoint in his new role as he has so many others, after six months of residency within it, Philippe threw the doors of his palace open wide for the first time and entreated all of Highgate and a good portion of Eastgate to step inside.  
  
He has never hosted such an occasion before, but his many years at Maman's side had taught him by example how to do so with aplomb. He smiles despite the scuff of boots and clatter of heels across the satin-smooth polished floorboards; laughs despite the glasses carelessly set down on lacquered tables and sideboards where they will doubtless leave a sticky residue of split wine that eats into the varnish; and pretends complete absorption in some of the dullest conversations it has ever been his misfortune to endure.  
  
It seems unlikely that the Devan nobility is composed of inherently less interesting people than that of Roma, Lutetia or Augustodonum, but they are afflicted by the misfortune – through no fault of their own – of being démodé.  
  
Londinium had struck Philippe as being charmingly old-fashioned when first he arrived in Britannia and spent a week rejuvenating from his travels there, but Deva is positively antiquated in comparison. His guests talk of events in Gallia that happened weeks before as though they happened but yesterday, ask his opinions of plays he watched so long ago that he has forgotten all but their name, and earnestly pontificate about the upcoming plots of serialised tales in the periodicals that Philippe has already read in their entirety.  
  
Although the desire to point out the holes in the misguided theories they put forth is almost overpowering, Philippe bites his tongue.  
  
He bites his tongue and longs for better companions, but his family has abandoned him.  
  
Even though Marie has years of lessons in elocution and etiquette behind her, and countless exclusive soirees that Maman had arranged to try and help her feel more at ease in company, she can still be almost painfully shy around strangers, and never more so when faced with large crowds of them. Philippe had caught sight of her in the rose drawing room earlier, but as she had been not only talking quite animatedly to dark-haired and bearded young man, but looked quite eager to continue doing so, he had not wished to disturb her.  
  
If Marie's desertion can be forgiven, the same cannot be said for that of his brother or cousins. Giovanni and Francesco have disappeared beyond Philippe's ability to trace, though his attempts to unearth them had been both careful and thorough. Jean, on the other hand, had made no secret of either his hiding place or his wish to be left there in peace, having found himself a sizeable group of likeminded young men and women who are just as keen to while away the evening playing billiards as he.  
  
Philippe's own wish is that he could be free to join any one of them in their diversions, but his need to be thought of as just as good a host as Maman has ever been is stronger, so he smiles and laughs and waits for the night to end.

 

* * *

  
  
For a month or so, the evenings Philippe passed in Isabel's company were much the same as the first they'd shared: a light meal eaten with Louis, little Philippe, and Marianne, and then, after the children were put to bed, even lighter conversation over a game of chess or glass of cognac.  
  
As Philippe returned to the palace after each of these weekly excursions both clear-headed and sufficiently refreshed by the break in his otherwise entirely scholastic schedule that he felt he could devote even greater consideration to his studies, Father soon started to not only tolerate but even encourage them.  
  
Following this sea-change in his opinion, the ambience of Philippe's visits to his half-sister slowly changed.    
  
At first, there was simply one more guest at dinner – someone close to Philippe in age and station, and invariably as vivacious in speech as they were in appearance – but time wore on, the number of visitors increased, and they would often forgo food completely in favour of cards or parlour games.  
  
Isabel presented each of them to Philippe with all due propriety, exchanging no more than their names and titles as they bowed to one another, but later, in some secluded corner and behind the shielding mask of her fan, she would share whatever gossip she knew about his new acquaintances and ask him in a whisper whether he had noticed the elegant curve of this lord's calves or that lady's décolletage.  
  
And, for a good many weeks, Philippe had had to admit that he had not noticed anything of the sort. Before leaving Augustodonum, he could never even have conceived of such a fundamental change in his own nature, but before leaving Augustodonum, he could never have conceived that his life would become so cloistered, either.  
  
Most days, he exchanged no more than a word or two with Father or his tutors that weren't related to his lessons, and suddenly being surrounded by the warm press of strange bodies and the constant chatter of strange voices was so overwhelming to his senses that he could scarcely gather enough of his wits to speak himself, never mind fully appreciate the fine figures of his companions.  
  
Thinking that Isabel might perhaps be insulted enough to stop issuing him invitations altogether if he divulged his concerns, he kept them to himself.  
  
Or, at least, he attempted to, but his discomfort must have been obvious to Isabel all the same, for as end of the year drew near, her gatherings grew quieter once more, despite the lively celebrations that the season would usually demand.  
  
"I have a delightful young gentleman for you to meet tonight," Isabel told Philippe on what was to be his last visit before the fortnight-long festivities of Yuletide began, and his half-sister's calendar became too crowded with other commitments to accommodate him. "Just lately arrived from Roma and pining for it dreadfully. I'm sure you'll be able to make all thoughts of home fly clear from his mind, though!"  
  
"Perhaps," Philippe said, feigning a struggle to remove his gloves that demanded his full concentration so he could avoid having to see the hopeful expression that was doubtless gracing Isabel's face.  
  
The last 'delightful young gentleman' who dined with them had found him something of a bore, and took no particular pains to disguise it, as had the 'lovely young lady' of the previous week. Philippe had begun to fear that he'd forgotten the art of conversation entirely.  
  
"He's the son of a Marchese who is a particular favourite of the Emperor," Isabel continued, undaunted by his noncommittal reply. "Very handsome, of course, and very charming. He's already become a great favourite of mine, himself, and he's not yet been in Lutetia a month!"  
  
As Isabel was so soft-hearted that her definitions of both handsome and charming were expansive enough to encompass near every citizen of Lutetia, regardless of the degree that their countenance and behaviour resembled that of a toad, Philippe did not entertain any great hopes for the Marchese's son.  
  
Within less than an hour of making his acquaintance, however, Philippe was convinced that Isabel had actually been doing Felice de Santis a great disservice.  
  
He was not as striking as many of the men his half-sister had introduced him to – his features were well-formed and regular, but there was nothing in particular about his face that caught the eye and demanded further attention – nor was his wit as quick.  
  
The one quality he possessed that all those other lords had lacked, however, was that he was slow to speak and eager to listen, and Philippe, whose voice had of late been stolen from him, discovered that he thought that more attractive than any other.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Three days after he opened his home to the cream of Devan society, Philippe discovers a Roman statue come to life in his conservatory.  
  
The exquisite lines of the interloper's face and body are, admittedly, somewhat spoiled by the ill-fitting rags he has chosen to clothe himself in, but Philippe is still able to maintain the illusion of marble-like perfection until the very moment he opens his mouth.  
  
No Roman champion of myth would speak in such a forthright manner with a rough accent that Philippe has hitherto overheard only in the Old Town district of Deva, where apparently air is in such short supply that every other consonant has to be swallowed down in order to conserve it  
  
He cannot imagine one going by the name of Corporal Alasdair Kirkland, either, nor lowering themselves to join the Town Guard, who, according to M. Jansen, are thugs no different to the criminals they purport to police, save they alone are legally allowed to hit people with swords in the street.  
  
The fallen hero gives him a sloppy salute, and then tries to excuse his trespassing by explaining that he's, 'investigating a murder.'  
  
Captain Fischer had already informed Philippe of the body discovered in Old Town in her latest report, but the corporal's portentous glowering seems to demand a slightly more dramatic reaction than indifference.  
  
 “A murder?” Philippe asks, pressing a hand to his chest.  
  
The gasp, he has to admit, may have been a touch overdone, and the look of mingled horror and disgust the corporal gives him suggests that he suspects him of being deliberately mocking.  
  
“Aye,” the corporal says stiffly. “A young man was found murdered in Old Town, and he was in possession of a rose just like these. They’re not something that’s common around these parts, but my inquiries led me to believe that I might learn more in your palace, and so you find me now.”  
  
“How dreadful,” Philippe says, and though he strives towards a more neutral tone this time, the continued stoniness of the corporal's face suggests he has still fallen somewhat far of the mark.  
  
“Are you aware of anywhere else nearby that might grow roses like these?” the corporal asks making a brisk gesture towards the rose bush he had been examining.  
  
Philippe has seen very little of his new hometown beyond the handful of estates, theatres, and museums in Highgate he has personally been invited to attend. Aside from a brief detour to watch the dancing in Old Town's College Square during some local festival or other, and his appointments with Alaina at her shop in Eastgate, he has yet to explore further despite promising himself on numerous occasions that he would find the time to do so.  
  
This failure has irritated him in the past, but now, it somehow seems a little shameful, too. How can he expect to properly govern a town – a country – he barely even knows?  
  
“I can’t say that I’ve had reason to see much of anything hereabouts,” he tells the corporal. “They’re hardly rare flowers, though.”  
  
Judging by the corporal's incredulous expression, that does not hold as true in Deva as it does in Gallia, though, if that is the case, he does not confirm it, but presses on with:  “The young man looked like he had noble blood. Might he have taken a cutting from this rose bush on a visit here? Or been given one?”  
  
“It would help if you could give me a name,” Philippe says. “I entertain many guests.”  
  
“I don’t have a name, but I can describe him. He was about twenty-five or so, about my height but about half my breadth. Tan skin, short black hair and beard.”  
  
Philippe's heart flips over in his chest. He doesn't have a name, either, but he does remember a bearded man with black hair. And he remembers the roses.  
  
He must to speak to Marie at once.  
  
“I can’t recall having met anyone who looks like that here,” he says, striving to keep his voice level and his words unhurried.  He pulls out his pocket watch, glances at its face without seeing it, and then lies, “I’m afraid I don’t have time to answer any more of your questions, Corporal. You can see yourself out.”

 

* * *

  
   
Isabel told Father pretty lies about the time she and Philippe spent together which left Philippe free to fill his four hours of liberty in any way he saw fit.  
  
He met Felice in the apartment he had taken near the _château de la douairière_ , where they made love, traded jokes and talked of inconsequential things, and then made love again.  
  
And for the two hours Philippe was allowed in order to worship in one of the temples on the last day of every week, he now took an earthly rather than spiritual path towards the divine.  
  
For the first since he moved to Lutetia, he could almost believe himself happy.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Whether it be in Augustodonum, Lutetia, or Roma, if protocol is the warp of courtly life, then flirtation is the weft. The two are bound together inextricably, and a young noble will have to learn not only how to charm a prince, but gracefully accept or deflect the advances of a marquis if they wish to be accepted amongst the highest echelons of Imperial society.  
  
Maman had been born a third daughter, groomed to make a good marriage as it had been inconceivable to grand-mère at the time that she would ever need to know how to make a good duchesse. She wielded compliments and coquetry with all the dexterity and ruthlessness of an assassin's blade; a prodigy who, during her first season in Lutetia at the tender age of twenty, was able to pierce the heart of a king still in mourning for his beautiful first wife.  
  
She can capture the whole of a person's attention with nothing more than a few coy looks and well chosen words. It's a subtle language that implies much but promises nothing, and Philippe had learnt its intricacies through careful observation at his mother's side, as he had so many other skills.  
  
The Brittonic nobility's attitude towards flirtation, he has found, does not mirror that of the continent. Here, it is a blunt instrument, meant to convey romantic intent and nothing more. He had scandalised more than one married lady and gentleman when first he'd moved to Deva before realising that his praise and admiring glances were received rather more seriously than the spirit in which they'd been given.  
  
Even afterwards, when he directed them solely towards those individuals who were otherwise free of attachments and he thought might appreciate such flattery, he was met with nothing more than blushes and averted eyes.  
  
Only one man has responded to him favourably, stepped forward to meet him instead of shrinking back.  
  
Were Philippe free to live a life of his own choosing, he would not have persisted in engaging Lord Mason in such a manner. To some, perhaps, he would not be an unattractive man, but his face and figure hold no such appeal for Philippe, and his touches, though infrequent, linger just a little too long, bespeaking an eagerness to change the rules of their little game entirely.  
  
Nevertheless, his evident interest is a boon, as Philippe had been in dire need of an excuse to spend more time away from the palace than was his previous habit, and fictitious meetings with Lord Mason have become something that his family expect near daily now.  
  
Physical meetings, however, he avoids wherever possible, because the lord's conversation has tended towards the lewd rather than merely suggestive of late, and the pretence at any sort of reciprocation has started to make Philippe feel a little uncomfortable as a consequence.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
As the days began to lighten with the approach of spring, so too did the minds of Philippe's small social circle, whose thoughts turned increasingly to matters of love.  
  
Isabel teased him incessantly whenever they saw one another, attributing a brightness of his eyes and easiness in his smile which Philippe had failed to perceive himself as indicative of a heart filled near to bursting with tender feelings for a 'certain someone' of their acquaintance.  
  
Father made no mention of his emotions, nor this supposed improvement in his countenance. His concerns were wholly practical.  
  
"As your mother is insistent that you will not join the army as you should," he'd said one evening after a thoroughly uninspiring meal of beef stew, "as soon as you've finished your training to my satisfaction, you will be married. I already have a suitable young lady in mind."  
  
It seemed to be apropos of nothing, as they had exchanged not one word during dinner, but Father did not make conversation for its own sake, and never passed an idle comment to chase away the silence as another man might.  
  
Philippe knew then that his and Isabel's attempts at subterfuge had been for naught, and his visits to Felice had not gone unnoticed. Father would not have seen fit to mention his marital duty, otherwise, as it was such a cardinal one that it did not need to be reiterated. He could only suppose that the Emperor's favour extended to Felice as well as his father, and thus his own had considered it impolitic to interfere in their affair.  
  
As for Felice himself, he made plans for a future that was impossible, given who and what they both were. He spoke of his love as something pure, and vital, and self-abnegating. Something that Philippe longed for but did not, as of yet, experience in return.  
  
Though, on occasion, his guilt and his yearning commingled and intensified his very real fondness and desire into an emotion that he could fool himself was akin to what Felice felt for him.  


 

* * *

  
  
  
When he was a youth, Philippe had read countless Gallian-authored romances set in the Britannia of ages past, when knights wrote poetry praising the eyes of their lady fair, sang her serenades, and fought duels to defend her honour.  
  
As he had still been expected to enter into an arranged marriage himself back then, he found the idea that love could blossom in such matches both reassuring and pleasing, even though he knew, deep down, that courtship was merely a literary convention, invented to inject a little romanticism into a time when men wedded for advancement and monetary gain, with not a thought to spare for their hearts.  
  
It therefore came as some surprise to discover in the research he undertook before moving to Britannia that the term courtship came up again and again in scholarly works concerning the country, even those that purported to chronicle its modern customs.  
  
The word was all they mentioned, however, and nothing more. Try as he might, Philippe could find no description of what it entailed, something which both puzzled and intrigued him.  
  
He had asked M. Jansen about it once when they were but newly acquainted, hoping for the sort of insight that he felt sure only a native Briton could give.  
  
"It's what you do before you get betrothed, Your Highness," his secretary had said, frowning slightly over the interruption to their work. "To make sure that the person you're thinking of marrying is not unsuitable."  
  
"Yes, yes, I gathered that much, but the accounts I read spoke of rituals being involved, though not one of them made mention of the specifics. I was hoping you might tell me more."  
  
M. Jansen's nose had wrinkled, as though Philippe a personal remark of the sort that should not be uttered in polite company. "I'm afraid I can't, Your Highness."  
  
Whether it was secret knowledge, passed down from Brittonic parent to child through the aeons and never to be shared with outsiders, or M. Jansen simply did not know himself, he had not seen fit to explain.  
  
His continued silence had somewhat disappointed Philippe, as what little he had learnt about courtship had made it sound even more appealing than the fictional accounts he had once enjoyed. It was, one particularly detailed tome had informed him, an understanding that could be entered into regardless of the genders or even number of participants involved. Certain arrangements, it had coyly stated, could be and were routinely made if the matter of heirs was to be an issue, so the convention held as true with the nobility as it did with commoners.  
  
As there had then been little that seemed less relevant to him than the pursuit of romance – he had, rather melodramatically in retrospect, convinced himself at the time that that was an facet of his previous life that would forever be beyond his reach to reclaim – he had not pressed M. Jansen further, and courtship slowly faded from his mind thereafter.  
  
It has made a resurgence of late, but Philippe likes to think that a result of both his deeper immersion in Devan society and the conversation he recently had with Corporal Kirkland's brother. It would be foolish to consider any other reason. Ridiculous, even.  
  
He has only known the man for two days, after all.  
  
Still, he finds the topic keeps intruding into his thoughts of late, and never more strongly than in this moment, when he has just shared a handshake with the corporal, and he can still feel faint tendrils of borrowed heat radiating out across the skin of his palm.  
  
“It’s a strange thing, courtship,” he finds himself saying, his voice so weak and hoarse that it barely sounds like own. “We don’t have it in Gallia, as I’m sure you know. I tried to read up on it before moving to Britannia but could only find very vague accounts.”  
  
“I’m not surprised.” The corporal shrugs his enormous shoulders. He appears thoroughly disinterested in their entire conversation. “The bards might have recorded the lives of anyone of any importance who ever lived here – down to each and every fucking bowel movement – and mapped every inch of this island, but even they wouldn’t write about it. Courting rules are ancient, and they’ve always been passed down by word of mouth. When they think you’re old enough, your Ma or Da or whoever it is that has charge of you will sit you down and let you into the secret.  
  
“I couldn’t tell you much about it myself, before you ask. Ma told my sister and me not long before we lost her, but neither of us was much interested, so we spent the whole time trying to make each other laugh behind her back and barely took in a word.”  
  
Philippe wonders if that's the real truth or simply a deflection. He has heard that many Brittonic priests refuse to perform marriage ceremonies if courtship has not been undertaken, which would make such deliberate ignorance seem rather self-defeating.  
  
“And has that made it difficult for you to court someone?” he asks blandly, not really expecting an answer. He is beginning to suspect that there must be some aspect of courtship that contravenes Imperial law, given both the corporal and M. Jansen's reticence about the subject.  
  
“I can’t say that it’s something that interests me now, either,” the corporal says, giving Philippe a narrow-eyed look that, when viewed in conjunction with his furrowed brow and the grim line of his mouth, seems to be one he intends to be imbued with great meaning and significance.  
  
Both of which, sadly, escape Philippe, unfamiliar as he is with the intricacies of the corporal's expressions. Though, taken as a whole, it does seem to telegraph quite clearly to even the uneducated observer that this is a discussion that Philippe should find a graceful way to bring to an end sooner rather than later if he has any hopes of the corporal retaining any trace of the good humour he has so recently regained.  


 


	6. The Captain 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another partially written story that I'm hoping to finish here as well as for the original AU. Also started working on doing so, too!
> 
> \--------
> 
> The present tense parts of this fic are set during and shortly following [Chapter 5](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18882250/chapters/44819158) of The Gallian Rose. Captain Luise Fischer's POV.

* * *

 

 

In Luise's first clear memory, she was crouched on the stairs at the rear of her da's butcher's shop with baby Ernst beside her. He was sitting unsupported, his chubby, dimpled hands curled around the edge of one chipped stone step for balance, so she couldn't be less than five years old.  
  
Behind the closed door at their backs, Ma and Da were screaming new obscenities and old accusations at one another, their voices swelling like the wail of the siren that marked the start and end of all the shifts at the factory on Dray's Field Road. Ernst was sniffling quietly, because the noise and commotion still frightened him, but Luise had learnt long since how to pretend that it was all happening somewhere far, far away. She ignored them, and kept all of her attention fixed on her older brother.  
  
Kurt's pale hair seemed to glow almost white in the radiance of the full moon overhead; a bright spot of light bobbing and weaving around their poky yard as he fought imaginary monsters lurking behind the rain barrel and washing line.  
  
"I'm going to be a knight when I grow up," he said, brandishing his stick at a menacing patch of shadow. "Travel the world and kill dragons for the Emperor."  
  
He'd talked about little else since they'd stopped in College Square on the last festival day to listen to the bard sing about the trials of King Llewellyn.  
  
"Da says dragons aren't real," Luise reminded him.  
  
He'd been firm about that, calling it 'stuff and nonsense' that only the Brittonic 'barbarians' could possibly believe.  
  
"Why would people write songs about them if they aren't?"  
  
Luise had thought the same, but she didn't want to contradict their da and so she stayed silent.  
  
"There won't be any left once I'm through with them, though." Kurt hacked at the shadow until a cloud drifted past the moon and it was vanquished by the darkness which swallowed it whole. "See, I'll be an awesome knight. I'll fight dragons, and ogres, and the damn Germanics" – Da would tan Kurt's hide for saying such things, and Luise was so very glad that he wasn't there to hear it – "and defeat every one. You should come with me. I bet you'd be an awesome knight as well, Lu."  
  
Luise wanted to keep the Empire safe from dragons, and ogres, and even the damn Germanics, but, for all their faults, she loved Ma and Da, and Ernst and Kurt. She loved her cosy room under the eaves of the butcher's shop, the way the cobbles on Ashfield Street smelt after it rained, and the tiny cakes dripping in honey that Ma bought once a week from the baker's down the way. She couldn't imagine wanting to live anywhere else.  
  
She wanted to fight, but only if she could become a knight who stayed in Old Town.

 

* * *

  
  
  
The cell block beneath the guardhouse is dank; the walls and floors both slimy with rising damp and moss.  
  
Luise walks carefully along the line of holding cells, each step measured and slow. It's a guard's walk – proceeding, Alasdair has always called it – which keeps the legs from aching too badly over the many hours of a shift's patrol. It's also useful, Luise has found, for minimising the risk of slipping on the treacherously slick flagstones underfoot.  
  
She doesn't think she'll lose the respect of her corporals if she lands on her arse in front of them, but it would likely end up tarnishing her reputation slightly, all the same.  
  
Outside the last cell, Corporal Brown greets her by saluting with one hand and thrusting a piece of paper towards her with the other.  
  
"Sign in sheet, sir," she says briskly. "For the suspect Corporal Ramsey apprehended outside the tannery."  
  
Luise scans the paper quickly, her eyes only catching on his date of birth and the name written at the end of the page: _Niall Walsh_. One of the men that Angus claims as a brother, no doubt, and she makes a note to ensure that the corporal is not allowed to enter the cellars unaccompanied for the time being.  
  
She trusts the men and women under her command, but family loyalty is, she knows, a very powerful thing.  
  
When she looks up again, Walsh has sidled to the front of his cell and is staring at her with unabashed interest through the bars.  
  
"I know you," he says. "We met before, when you were a kid."  
  
Although he has only a few years on her, and must have grown up only a few streets away, Luise is certain that they never did. The Walshes are all orphanage boys, and her ma and da would never have allowed her to mix with them because snobbery is as rife in Old Town as on any Highgate boulevard, in its way. It's easier to be content that you have no more than two coppers to rub together on a good day if you can still feel yourself superior to those who have none.  
  
"I don't think so," she says.  
  
"Ah, come on, you've got to remember! You and Ramsey chased me for... Must have been half a mile or more before I gave you the slip over the tannery wall," Walsh says, as cheerfully conversational as if he they truly were old childhood acquaintances catching up with each other's lives over a pint at the Lost Antler. "Ramsey recognised me easily enough."  
  
Alasdair would, but then he has a far better memory for faces than Luise. She does, however, regularly review the reports from unsolved cases, and Walsh's description of their encounter seems familiar.  
  
"A ring and purse were reported stolen from a house on Hickmore Way. You were stopped outside the White Hart on Darwin Close, searched, and found to be carrying both."  
  
"That was me!" Walsh's grin blooms and then withers again in an instant. He quickly adds, "I was just keeping hold of them for a friend, though. I didn't nick anything."  
  
"Maybe not," Luise says, "but you have just confessed to handling stolen goods."  
  
"Wait a minute! I—"  
  
"You have the right to have the assistance of a lawyer, Mr Walsh. I recommend my brother, Kurt Fischer; his fees are incredibly reasonable."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
One morning when Luise was seven, Ma pressed a penny, dulled with grease and verdigris, into Kurt's hand.  
  
"Thanks, Ma," Kurt said, pink cheeked and beaming, as he folded his fingers around the copper coin.  
  
Ma had never given her a penny before, and Luise tried very hard not to be jealous, but she must have frowned, or pouted, or glared a little, regardless, because Kurt's face soon fell.  
  
"I'll buy a big bag of sweets with it," he told her, "and you and me and Ernst can all share them."  
  
"You'll do nothing of the sort," Ma gave Kurt a quick clip around the back of his ear, making him yelp. "You'll give that to Mr Ramsey over at the apothecary. He's agreed to let you sit in on the lessons he gives to his twins for a couple of days a week, so he can teach you to read and so on."  
  
Luise's stomach started squirming, like it was filled with worms and nothing half so pretty and delicate as butterflies.  
  
Mr and Mrs Ramsey had always been kind to her, smiling and waving at her when they passed on the street, and Ma and Da both liked them, because they had never treated them with the same suspicion as most of their other neighbours, even though five years in Deva hadn't been near long enough to scrub the traces of Germania from their accents.  
  
Alasdair and Caitlin Ramsey, on the other hand, made her nervous. They were the same age as her, but they were so much taller, and talked with the assurance of adults, using long words she didn't understand.  
  
Besides, when Kurt was six, he had poked fun at Alasdair's lisp and Caitlin had bitten his arm so hard that her teeth broke through his skin as well as his sleeve. They had both avoided the twins ever since.  
  
"Do we have to, Ma?" Kurt asked.  
  
He never normally sat still for a moment or two at a time, so Luise couldn't imagine him with a book and chalkboard, quietly learning to read.  
  
She couldn't imagine herself, either. Aside from the few chores Ma and Da set them around the house, their days were entirely their own. Whilst their parents worked, they explored the streets of Old Town together, fished for tadpoles and minnows in the pond behind the ironmongers, and played at being knights, duelling with their stick-swords and rescuing wild-bird-princesses from stray-cat-dragons.  
  
Lessons, she thought, would be extremely dull in comparison.  
  
"Yes, you have to," Ma said. "You won't get very far in this life, otherwise."  
  
Kurt whined and moaned, and then he begged and pleaded, but Ma stood firm.  
  
"Do you want to have no choice but to take over the shop when you're grown?" she said. "I've never heard of a knight who doesn't know his letters, Kurt."  
  
That silenced Kurt where likely nothing else could. He nodded meekly, and Luise knew that Ma would never listen to any of her complaints now that Kurt had agreed with her.  
  
She would have to screw up all of her courage, and all of her determination, and go with her brother to the apothecary.

 

* * *

  
  
  
"This is everything we found on Walsh, sir," Corporal Brown says. Her hands tremble a little as she holds out a shallow tray to Luise, which causes its contents to clink and rattle against the cheap, dented tin.  
  
The hastily written report she had turned in upon her return to the guardhouse had described her part in Walsh's arrest in completely dispassionate terms, but it has clearly shaken her more than she will likely ever admit. Although her shot went wide and only grazed the man's shoulder, it had still been the first time she'd ever aimed her pistol at anything other than a wooden practice target. Luise would be more worried if it hadn't unnerved her somewhat.  
  
Brown thrives on movement and occupation, so it would be no kindness to send her home for the rest of her shift to recuperate, as Luise might order any of her other corporals who found themselves in similar circumstances.  
  
Instead, she pretends she has not noticed Brown's trembling or her ashen skin, and simply eases the tray out of her hands without comment before it can overspill, so she can study the meagre haul it contains more closely.  
  
There are a handful of coins – only half of them Imperial tender and not one of them genuine; the shallow scratches marring their silvery surfaces reveal nothing but dull brass underneath – a string of cheap and battered prayer beads which indicate Walsh is, surprisingly for a known thief, an active devotee of the Silent God, and a thick leather wallet that looks far too well-made for it to be anything other than stolen property.  
  
The lozenge-shaped golden clasp holding it closed is embossed with a picture of a ship so intricately detailed that every rope of its rigging and each timber of its hull are precisely outlined despite the entire vessel being no longer than the first two joints of Luise's index finger. On the largest of its billowing sails, a bunch of five plump grapes stands out in proud relief.  
  
Luise has seen that crest before, rendered in bronze, silver, gold and stained glass at the Martinez residence, which she'd visited several times during her tenure as a sergeant in Eastgate in order to inform Mme. Clemence Martinez that her son, Henri, had once again disgraced the family name.  
  
"Send someone to fetch my brother," Luise tells Brown, a chill settling deep in her belly. "Mr Walsh may not want a lawyer, but I think he's going to need one."  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The door to the apothecary seemed to loom impossibly large above Luise's head, black as pitch and foreboding, even though it was made out of exactly the same wood and set in exactly the same sort of frame as the door that led out onto her own house's back yard.  
  
It made her think of the long, terrifying hours she and Kurt spent attending temple services with Ma, their arses going cold and numb from the rock-hard benches whilst they listened to a golden-robed priest with fever-bright eyes spitting out warnings of the Darkened Halls, where those who angered the Silent God were locked away forever without light or love or laughter. The dread portal to that cursed place, he'd always said, resembled any other, but there was an eternity behind it.  
  
She was so lost in that thought, that Kurt's hand closing around her own caused her to jump a little and loose a low cry of alarm.  
  
"You look scared, Lu," he explained, when Luise glanced at him questioningly. "But don't worry; I'll protect you."  
  
His voice was shaking, his eyes as round and wide as saucers, so Luise squeezed his hand twice as hard in return. He smiled at her then, but it was a thin little thing, prickly and tight-lipped, and he didn't seem even slightly reassured.  
  
It still gave him enough courage to knock at the door, albeit only lightly; ever so lightly, as though he was hoping, like Luise was hoping, that it might pass unheard. That way they wouldn't have to lie to Ma - _'We tried, Ma! Really, we did!'_ – if they went home now without ever receiving their threatened lessons.  
  
Nevertheless, it wasn't quiet enough, and was answered within a beat or two of Luise's racing heart by the muted sounds of footsteps beyond the weather-beaten wood.  
  
Kurt's fingers gripped Luise's so tightly that they began to ache.  
  
The door swung open to reveal, not the Gatekeeper of the Darkened Halls as Luise had been half-expecting, but only Mr Ramsey, and her closely held breath flew out from her mouth in a sudden rush of relief. There was nothing even slightly frightening about Mr Ramsey: he was a small man, soft around the middle, and his grey-green eyes were as gentle as the smile of welcome he gave Kurt and Luise, the long tails of his moustache lifting and parting to reveal a quick glimpse of his straight, white teeth.  
  
He gave them a short bow like they were royalty come calling, and said, "Perfect timing." He spoke like he was royalty, too, in a crisp Highgate accent with its elongated vowels and staccato constants. "I've just got the twins settled down, so we were about to begin."  
  
He ushered them into a kitchen that looked very much like the one in Luise's home, except the whitewash that covered the walls was clean and bright, not darkened with cooking grease and soot, and the heavy beams in the ceiling had been waxed and polished with such care that they shone.  
  
There was a lively fire burning in the grate, a kettle coming to boil on the stove, and sunny yellow curtains at the windows, which made everything feel warm and snug and homely.  
  
It seemed to be a very friendly sort of room, up until Luise finally allowed her gaze to stray towards the long table in the centre of it.  
  
There sat Caitlin and Alasdair Ramsey at one end, their heads bent close as they whispered to one another. Caitlin's grin was sharp-edged, and Alasdair's thick, dark brows were drawn down low in a scowl, so Luise suspected that whatever they were saying was probably unkind.  
  
Still, they stood up quickly enough when their da led Kurt and Luise towards the table, and bobbed their heads properly and respectfully in greeting. Neither of them smiled, though.  
  
Mr Ramsey bade them to sit, then extended the same invitation to Luise and her brother. Kurt shook his head, fumbling to open the small pouch hanging at his belt.  
  
"Ma said we should give you this first," he said as he extracted the grimy, time-worn penny Ma had given him.  
  
He held it out towards Mr Ramsey, who shied away from it slightly, as though it was something poisonous he didn't dare touch.  
  
"I told your mother I don't require payment," he said. "You keep that."  
  
Kurt hesitated momentarily, fingers curling around the precious coin, but despite the sweets he had longed to buy with it, Luise knew he would refuse Mr Ramsey's offer even before he said, "We don't need charity, sir."  
  
They're their da's words, oft overheard, and spoken in a close approximation of their da's gruff tone.  
  
Mr Ramsey's round cheeks reddened. "Of course you don't," he said, accepting the penny from Kurt now with the delicacy of a noble's grace. "Here, I'll put it in the tin on the mantel, with the rest of my earnings."  
  
Alasdair snorted loudly, the sound swiftly curtailed by his clenched fist against his mouth when his da turned a censorious eye on him.  
  
When he dropped his hand again, he and Caitlin traded smirks like they were sharing some sort of private joke, and Luise couldn't help but wonder if it was a joke at Kurt's expense. That perhaps he had done something they considered so ridiculous or stupid or impolite that they weren't able to stop themselves from laughing at it.  
  
Luise thought she might hate them both, just a little.  


* * *

 

  
Luise had lost herself so thoroughly in reviewing the reports from the day patrols that it seems like nothing but a handful of minutes elapsed between her dismissal of Corporal Brown and the familiar, distinctive knock at her office door that announces her brother's arrival.  
  
She stacks the papers neatly, face-down, and then calls out for him to enter.  
  
His step is filled with an equally familiar energy and force, though when she looks up to greet him, she's dismayed to see that the bags beneath his eyes are even fuller than usual, and his skin is dulled with a greyish pallor.  
  
He hasn't been sleeping well of late. Luise has been woken at dawn by the sound of him pacing back and forth across his attic room every morning this past week.  
  
Despite his obvious exhaustion, he has clearly taken great pains with his appearance. He's clean shaven for the first time in days, his prematurely white hair slicked back smartly behind his ears. His frock coat is second-hand – three seasons out of date – but well-pressed and only slightly frayed around the collar.  
  
He almost looks like a real lawyer.  
  
"What have you got me this time, Lu?" he asks.  
  
He can never seem to remember that she's not his little sister in this place; in this office. He compounds the discourtesy by tossing his leather satchel down on top of Luise's desk without so much as glancing towards it beforehand to check that there's nothing important there that he might be disrupting.  
  
"Stolen handkerchief, maybe?" Kurt continues, ignoring Luise's curtly spoken displeasure just as he always does. "Yet another fracas outside the Lost Antler?"  
  
"A murder suspect," Luise says, which makes Kurt's maroon eyes spark bright with excitement.  
  
He hadn't seen the victim's body when it was lying lonely, bloated and unclaimed in the dank cellars of the Paupers' Temple, but Luise had, and even though she knows her brother's interest is purely professional, she thus can't bear to witness it.  
  
She looks instead at the satchel in front of her; leather cracked around the clasps, stitching unravelling along its sides. It had once borne Kurt's initials, embossed just below the handle, but they have long since worn away. Luise had saved up her pennies for months to buy it for her brother before he went away to Durolipons to attend the university there.  
  
That had been more than a decade ago. A few years back, he could easily have bought ten more like it, so she assumes that he kept it out of sentimentality even though he now uses it out of simple necessity as he can no longer spare the money to replace it.  
  
"Shit," Kurt says eventually, lowering himself unsteadily into the rickety chair opposite Luise's. "And they asked for me to represent them?"  
  
He sounds incredulous enough that Luise feels no need to try and soften the blow by pretending that there was any choice on Walsh's part.  
  
"No, he didn't want a lawyer at all, but I thought he should have one, all the same, given the severity of the charges against him," she says. "He's penniless, as far as I can tell, so the guards will have to pay the retainer, and you're the only lawyer we can afford."  
  
She glances up at Kurt just in time to see a ripple of hurt cross his face, but it's quick to pass. His grin soon returns.  
  
"It'll be good to have a case I can really sink my teeth into again," he says, suddenly launching himself back up to his feet again. He's really no better at staying still now than he ever was as a child. "Come on, Lu; what are we sitting around here for? I want to meet my new client before the mould in those cells of yours has chance to finish him off before his time."

 

 


	7. The Courtship 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of Philippe and Aly's courtship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another partially written story that I'm hoping to finish here as well as for the original AU. I went back and forth on whether to include it here, as I intend Philippe and Aly's later courtship to take a different course, but eventually decided that the very start of it will remain the same.

* * *

 

 

 **Step One: Seeking Permission from Your Intended's Family**  
  
   
  
Basil tincture. Garlic oil. Saltwater poultices. Baked onions. Each efficacious for the treatment of disorders of the ear, and each readily available in the apothecary's stores.  
  
Dylan is tempted to get up from his seat at the kitchen table and use every single one of them on himself, all at once, because there must be something horribly wrong with his hearing.  
  
As fleeing from his brother and making a desperate grab for curatives mere moments after his otherwise extremely welcome return home could so very easily be misconstrued, however, Dylan restrains his self-medication to a simple, brisk shake of his head in an attempt to rattle loose the ill-humours that must surely have settled there.  
  
Though, if they have, they've obviously infected Michael too, as he blinks in bewilderment and asks Alasdair, "You're kidding, right?"  
  
Alasdair blinks back at him slowly. "Naw," he says in an equally ponderous tone. "Why in the hells would I joke about something like this?"  
  
"Surely you can understand that it might seem a little farfetched to us?" Dylan says when Michael looks towards him beseechingly, begging him to step in and offer support to bolster his position. "Not even three days ago, you were still adamant that there was absolutely no truth in the rumours going around about the two of you, but now you say you're..."  
  
The word withers on the tip of his tongue, then dies trapped tight behind his teeth, as though his entire mouth has become inimical to its very existence. He can't even manage to spit it out on his second attempt, and all that emerges for his efforts is a inchoate hiccough of breath.  
  
Alasdair appears to have no such difficulties. "Courting," he says without either inflection or hesitation, like it's just any other word with no special meaning or implications at all.  
  
" _You're_ courting a _prince_ ," Michael says, emphasising both pronoun and title so heavily that they sound almost scornful.  
  
"Philippe," Alasdair corrects him gently. "Philippe and I are courting, and—"  
  
Michael scrambles to his feet with such violent abruptness that he nearly upsets the table as well as his chair, and he shoots Alasdair a wounded glare before stomping away up the stairs. A few seconds later, the door to his room slams shut; the impact reverberating down through the floorboards and setting the lamp hanging from the centre of the kitchen ceiling to swaying back and forth on its anchoring chain.  
  
Alasdair sighs. "I promised him he wouldn't have to worry about this kind of thing with me," he says, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Wait here a minute, will you, Dyl? I'd best go and try and sort this out with him now before he has chance to worry himself half to death about it all over again."

  
  
 ----------------  
  


 

Alasdair takes rather more than a minute to pacify Michael, though nowhere near as long as Dylan had been anticipating. As it is, he manages to time his return perfectly with the kettle coming to the boil, and he hovers at Dylan's shoulder as he prepares a second mug; a silent sentinel, ever vigilant for evidence he is being short-changed on the honey.  
  
They stand side by side together afterwards, leaning up against the counter as they wait for the tea to cool enough to drink. The top of Alasdair's arm is pressed close and warm against Dylan's shoulder, but the contact is not as comforting as it usually is as there's a tension in his muscles there that bespeaks a certain measure of unease.  
  
"Mikey's all right," Alasdair says eventually, his fingers picking out a syncopated beat as they drum against the side of his mug. "He seems to have started getting used to the idea already. He says he's going to move into palace if me and Philippe do get married. He wants the biggest bedchamber going, a feather bed, and a pony, apparently."  
  
He chuckles, but Dylan can't join in with him. The whole situation feels too unreal, and he fears his own laughter may end up being slightly hysterical.  
  
"If you get married?" he asks, clutching at that one little word like a lifeline, because it seems to hint at an old normality that everything else Alasdair has said thus far has lacked.  
  
"It's not exactly a foregone conclusion." Alasdair shrugs. "Hells, the whole thing might not even last to the end of this week, for all I know."  
  
Dylan takes a sip of his tea to try and disguise the fact that he needs a moment to gather his thoughts. It's still too hot, and the blend is a mite too heavy on the ginger for his liking. It scalds the roof on his mouth and leaves an unpleasant, tingling aftertaste on his lips, and he swipes his tongue across them compulsively to rid himself of the sensation.  
  
Alasdair clearly misreads the gesture as an unwillingness to voice his opinion, as he implores him to, "Just say whatever it is you want to say. Please, Dyl. I want know if you're all right, too."  
  
Permission thus granted, Dylan finds himself blurting, "Why on earth are you doing this, Aly? You've never been interested in getting married before."  
  
This outburst appears to surprise Alasdair fully as much as Dylan himself, judging by the swift upward arc of his eyebrows.  
  
"When have I ever said that?" he asks, his voice thinning to a knife-edge sharpness.  
  
"You," Dylan begins, but his confidence fails him before he can even form his next word. He had, he realises, assumed that was the case, given his brother's indifference when it comes to amorous entanglements otherwise. "You want to get married?" he finishes, a little uncertainly.  
  
Alasdair gives a small, brisk nod of his head. "Always have done," he says gruffly. "I never thought it'd happen, though, because... Well, I'm sure you'd already worked out for yourself that there are certain aspects of marriage that have never appealed."  
  
It is, indeed, something else Dylan has always assumed. He's never once expected to have it confirmed outright, however, and the admittance throws him completely off-guard. Alasdair has always been so evasive about the subject in the past that Dylan had stopped asking him even oblique questions about it when they were both still in their adolescence, thinking that it was something that his brother found either too painful or too embarrassing to discuss.  
  
It's become such a taboo, in fact, that Dylan can barely summon sufficient courage and force of will to ask, "But... But they do now?"  
  
He quickly raises his mug to his mouth again, even though he has no intention of taking another drink. It simply provides a convenient shield to hide his own blush behind whilst he watches Alasdair's own colour heighten out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"I'm... I'm honestly not sure," his brother finally admits. "But that's why we're courting. That's what it's supposed to be for, isn't it? A year to see if you're both compatible? Philippe is... He wanted us to give it a go, see where it leads us."  
  
Which would all be very commendable – he would even call it sweet if the term didn't seem too undignified to apply to the deeds of royalty – but Dylan can't help but think that the prince's idea of what this 'courtship' might entail is probably out of step with Alasdair's, who can be more than a little naive about such matters.  
  
"He is aware that courtship is supposed to be a prelude to marriage if it works out, isn't he?" he asks gently.  
  
He can scarcely believe Alasdair's answering, "Aye," even though it is very firmly and promptly stated.  
  
"And he's allowed to do that? Marry a..."  
  
Dylan can't quite think of a polite way of putting it, flustered as he is, but Alasdair helpfully provides, "A commoner? Governors are as good as kings here, Dyl; he can do whatever the fuck he likes in his private life. He doesn't have to answer to anyone about that.  
  
"His da doesn't give a shit what he does anymore outside his work, so he's hardly likely to object, and his ma..." His cheeks grow a fraction ruddier. "Well, he says his ma would probably take a shine to me. Once she's wrapped her head around me not being a duke or the like, in any case."  
  
"Oh," Dylan says, nonplussed.  
  
His brother, who hasn't ever shown the slightest inclination towards the romantic, might someday marry a prince. It seems so fanciful, so improbable, that he doesn't know what to think, or say, or do. He stares down into the depths of his mug, but, unsurprisingly, they have no insight to give.  
  
Alasdair must take his take his lack of reaction as indicative of some inner turmoil deeper than straightforward shock, as he briefly wraps Dylan in one of his constrictive, rib-bruising hugs. "It might well come to nothing," he says, dipping his head down low to press his bristly cheek against Dylan's ear. "There's no guarantee you're going to be rid of me, you ken?"  
  
That thought had yet to cross Dylan's mind, but as he suspects Alasdair might find that truth somewhat insulting, he chooses to keep quiet about the matter.  
  
Alasdair gives him one final squeeze, then takes a step back and hurriedly gulps down his tea. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to love you and leave you for the time being," he says as he rinses his mug half-heartedly in the sink. "I've got a meeting scheduled with Lu at nine, to debrief her again about everything that happened at the palace and sort out my patrols and so on. I shouldn't be more than an hour or two. We'll talk more when I get back, okay?"  
  
"Okay," Dylan echoes dully, hoping against hope that it'll give him enough time to digest everything his brother has just told him to such an extent that he can at least pretend to be happy about it.

  
   
\------------  
 

 

Despite the morning's upsets and revelations – and with the aid of a second cup of tea and a furtive and slightly conscience-stricken pipeful of tobacco – Dylan manages to regather enough of his wits in short enough order that he feels equal to opening the shop only twenty minutes later than usual.  
  
The sky is darkened with a bank of clouds the colour of unpolished granite which hang so low above the rooftops that they almost seem to be within arm's reach. What little sunlight has trickled through their enveloping shroud is weak and wavering and lends the street outside the dusky hues of twilight.  
  
Dylan sighs dejectedly when the first, fat drops of rain begin to rattle against the windowpane. He very seldom gets passing trade as it is, but a downpour of the magnitude that the thunder rolling overhead loudly promises will ensure that none but the most desperate are likely to venture outside.  
  
There seems little point in rousting Michael from his bed once more simply so that he can join him in finding ways to idle away the hours until five o'clock, so Dylan resigns himself to spending yet another tedious day bored and alone.  
  
He takes out the shop's ledger for the third time that week and spends a pointless half hour checking that the miniscule amounts of money entered therein balance, and that his taxes have been properly calculated, just as he did yesterday.  
  
Later, as he's unsteadily perched atop a rickety stepladder, making an inventory of the bottles and jars arrayed on a shelf he knows full well hasn't been touched for a month at least, he wonders again why in the hells he persists in engaging in the ridiculous charade that is his working life.  
  
The apothecary's trade in its essentials is one that he is both good at and takes great satisfaction in, but he has never had, and probably will never have, any aptitude for salesmanship. He has not the ruthless heart required to peddle useless sugar water to those whose ailments need only a bit of rest or fresh air to remedy, nor can he master the sort of patter which persuades people to part with far more coin than a physic is worth, no matter how diligently he has practiced over the years.  
  
He would be much happier and more productive, he thinks, if he could work solely in his laboratory, and avoid the mercantile aspect entirely. If he shut up the shop, Michael would doubtless thank him, too, as he has never had any interest in becoming an apothecary, never mind a shopkeeper. Dylan would have gladly spared his little brother, had he ever been in the position that he could afford to take on an apprentice in the usual way, but such a thing remains a pipe dream, and thus they are unhappily yoked to suffer together.  
  
Because giving up on ma's shop feels far too close to spitting in the face of her memory for Dylan's liking. It has been in her family for four generations now, and no doubt she had wanted it to continue thus for at least four generations to come, as well. Both of her sisters live outside Deva with no intentions of returning – married to farmers; their children destined to become farmers, too – so the weight of that responsibility had fallen entirely on Dylan's shoulders. And as he had never dared to assume that he might one day have children of his own, he had reluctantly sacrificed Michael on the altar of tradition as soon he turned fourteen.  
  
Just for the moment, however, Dylan allows himself the guilty pleasure of imagining what life might be like if they were all free to pursue their own hearts. Perhaps Llewellyn would allow him to set up a small laboratory in the Bard's Hall, in order that he might make up any medicines that Gabriella ordered – and maybe, the prince, too, if he had no apothecary of his own on staff – but avoid dealing with any customers besides. And perhaps Michael could learn to be a clerk, or librarian, or—  
  
The muted clunk of the bell above the shop door comes as such a shock that Dylan loses his balance and nearly topples arse over tit from his precarious perch. Only a frantic, last minute grab for the edge of the nearest shelf as he feels his feet start to slip out from underneath him saves him from such an indignity. He leans his forehead against it for a moment, ragged fingernails clawed deep into the wood and panting like a frightened dog, and then peers apprehensively back over his shoulder.  
  
The shop floor seems an extremely long way away, and at the centre of it stands the prince, staring up at him with naked concern in his eyes.  
  
"My apologies, Mr Kirkland," he says, his voice softened so much in his contrition that Dylan barely recognises it. "I didn't mean to startle you."  
  
"It's all right," Dylan says as he hurriedly descends the ladder. "I'm fine. No harm done."  
  
Back on solid ground once more, and without the threat of a sudden plunge into broken limbs or cracked skull looming large at the front of his mind, Dylan becomes uncomfortably aware that his stock-taking endeavours have left him in a deplorably dishevelled state. He runs his fingers through his hair, shaking loose the worst of the dust, cobwebs, and knots that have settled there, and tugs his ridden-up shirttails back down to cover the exposed lower curve of his belly.  
  
Recomposed to the best of his meagre abilities, he offers the prince a bow. "Your Highness."  
  
The prince looks horrified to see it, and he shakes his head vigorously. "Please, call me Philippe."  
  
He darts forward, and before Dylan has chance to protest or even register what he intends to do, takes hold of Dylan's right hand in a firm clasp with his left.  
  
The prince's fingertips are icy cold, his palm clammy, and Dylan belatedly realises that the man as a whole is practically wringing wet. Water is dripping from not only the end of hair turned to corkscrew ringlets by the rain, but every sharp point of him, from the tip of his nose, to the darted sleeves of his overcoat. His boots are splattered with mud all the way up to his knees.  
  
"You didn't walk here, did you?" Dylan asks, aghast and wondering what in the many hells would possess a person with at least three carriages at their disposal to even contemplate doing such a thing.  
  
"I did." The prince smiles ruefully and drops Dylan's hand after giving it what Dylan can only deduce is meant to be a last, reassuring press. "The weather showed no signs of turning when I set out from the palace. It's so deceptive here, though. After near seven months' acquaintance with it, I really should have learnt better than to let it lull me into a false sense of security."  
  
"So, you came all that way on your own?"  
  
Even lacking his brother's guard instincts and presumably tender feelings for the man, Dylan is horrified by the idea all the same. Although one murderer has lately been removed from Deva's streets, there are likely many other unsavoury characters lurking yet undetected, and willing to risk the gallows for a chance at getting their hands on a noble's fat purse.  
  
"Ah, no, Aly insisted on hand-picking a new personal guard for me from the palace staff before he left. He might not have the liberty of my chambers as Aly did in the same position, but he is tasked with following me everywhere else. He's sheltering from the storm a few doors down for the moment as I wanted to talk to you alone."  
  
The request itself is intriguing enough, but the conspiratorial whisper the prince's voice drops into makes it doubly so. "Of course," Dylan says with slightly more alacrity than he thinks is probably seemly. "I'll just—"  
  
The bell does its doleful best at pealing again as Alasdair stumbles in through the door, bringing with him a fresh deluge of rainwater to puddle across the once neatly swept floorboards, and muttered complaints about how he's 'soaked all the way down to his drawers'.  
  
The prince muffles his giggles at hearing that by pressing his clenched fist against his mouth, but they're still loud enough to attract Alasdair's attention.  
  
His eyes widen, the colour drains from his face, and he barks out in an almost accusatory fashion, "What the fuck are you doing here?"  
  
The prince's hand drops to his chest, and then splays out over his heart. "Perhaps I had begun missing you already?" he says. He sounds earnest, but when Alasdair's jaw drops incredulously low, he laughs again as though his words had been intended as nothing more than a joke from the beginning. "Or perhaps I came to ask your brother's permission to start courting you?"  
  
"You only need to do that if your intended hasn't come of age yet," Alasdair says, his eyebrows scrunching together in puzzlement. "I thought we went through that already?"  
  
"Of course we did," the prince says, though the note of revelation in his tone is so forced that Dylan is convinced in an instant that his first explanation had been the correct one. "I'm afraid it must have slipped my mind in all the subsequent excitement." He hangs his head as if chagrined. "My apologies again, Mr Kirkland, for taking up your time for no purpose."  
  
"It's all right, Your— Ph-Philippe," Dylan stammers as he desperately tries to work out what his part in this particular bit of playacting should be. He thinks that Alasdair is just surprised by the prince's presence, not unhappy, but whilst that uncertainty remains, he cannot be sure of whether he should be offering the man any reasons to linger. "I'm sorry you made a wasted journey in conditions like these."  
  
"Not wasted." The prince offers Dylan a soft smile. "Though this visit may have proved to be unnecessary, it was merely a detour. I was headed into Old Town on other business anyway and thought I might as well kill two birds with one stone, as it were.  
  
"And now I suppose I should be on my way again. I have a meeting scheduled for eleven o'clock with the head of the Butcher's Guild that I really cannot be late for, and I wanted to call in on the Bard's Hall and see how the restoration work is progressing beforehand."  
  
He sets out towards the front door, but before he reaches it, Alasdair calls out a quelling, "Wait!"  
  
The prince turns on his heel and tilts his head up to look at Alasdair in a way that isn't direct enough to be expectant, though it does seem somewhat akin. Dylan is inclined to call it hopeful.  
  
"What is it?" he says.  
  
Alasdair extracts a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket that is, amazingly, somehow bone dry. "Here, I jotted down the times for this week's shifts like you asked me to," he says.  
  
His expression immediately crumples into something that closely resembles anger when he presses the note into the prince's outstretched hand and their fingers briefly brush together.  
  
"For fuck's sake, Philippe," he snaps, "you're freezing. Can't you at least stay for long enough to have a cup of tea and warm up a bit? You'll likely catch your death of cold, otherwise."  
  
The prince's answering smile is as sudden and bright as a burst of sunshine, and so broad that it makes his cheeks dimple. "I could probably spare a minute or two," he says. "That sounds lovely, Aly. Thank you."

  
  
 ----------  
  


 

The prince lowers himself onto the chair Alasdair has pulled up close to their hearth with the sort of low groan of mingled pain and pleasure that Dylan has heard escape the lips of rheumaticky old men as they settle themselves in the Antler's snug after a long day of aching joints and despairing at what the world's coming to.  
  
He takes off his filthy boots, and then stretches his feet out towards the fire; toes wriggling in what looks to be contentment.  
  
Alasdair regards their dance with evident amusement when he returns from his room, freshly clad in dry clothes and bearing the one towel they own that still retains enough of its fuzzy nap to be properly absorbent.  
  
"Don't go getting too comfortable," he says. "That poor guard of yours is out there getting drenched, and if you fall asleep and miss that meeting, the guilds will be calling for your head to be mounted on a spike all over again."  
  
"Your concern for the integrity of my neck is, as ever, very touching, Aly," the prince says with a lop-sided smile that makes Alasdair first roll his eyes, and then ball up the towel and launch it towards him.  
  
Dependent on his intentions, his aim is either perfect or embarrassingly woeful, as the towel sails within mere inches of clipping both the prince's ear and his shoulder, and instead lands neatly on his lap.  
  
The prince clearly believes the former to be the truth of the matter, as he mumbles a few words of gratitude before unfurling the towel and scrubbing his head almost viciously with it. This ruthless attack leaves his hair floating up from his scalp in a fluffy cloud, but he quickly scrapes back it into a neat, orderly queue.  
  
Afterwards, he picks up the mug of tea Dylan had set at his feet, cradling it close to his chest as he sinks even deeper into his seat.  
  
Alasdair studies his face for a moment, maybe searching for signs of oncoming drowsiness, and then, with a sharp nod that seems to signal satisfaction, retreats to the table with a periodical Dylan knows he has already read from cover to cover at least once before.  
  
The silence lengthens, deepens, and then feels to bear down on them with all the suffocating weight of a pall. At least, it does to Dylan, and he starts to believe that he really is intruding, even though both Alasdair and the prince had reassured him he wasn't. That his brother might prefer to sit wrapped up as close and warm and tight to the prince as Dylan would if he were in Alasdair's place and Llewellyn in the prince's.  
  
He readies himself to get to his feet, an excuse he hasn't quite formulated lying half-baked on his lips, but the sound of the prince's voice freezes him in place before he can even part his arse from the seat.  
  
"I see from your notes that you're free on Saturday night, Aly. Would you care to join me and my family for dinner?"  
  
Alasdair chuckles mirthlessly. "Gods above, I can't imagine that being anything other than a shit show," he says. "Have you broken the 'good news' to them yet?"  
  
"I have. There was as much gnashing of teeth and rending of garments as you might expect from certain quarters, but plenty of congratulations, too. Three days should be sufficient for Giovanni to reconcile himself to the idea, but even if that proves not to be the case, I'll find some way of persuading him to restrain his vitriol for a couple of hours."  
  
Although Alasdair worries at his bottom lip with his teeth for a while, his eventual nod is decisive. "Aye, go on, then," he says. "And what will you be expecting me to wear for this grand, and no doubt excruciating, occasion?"  
  
"I'll have something sent to you." The prince must already have developed some preternatural sense for when Alasdair is about to mount a protest, because he neither turns Alasdair's way, nor has Alasdair finished opening his mouth, when he adds, "It won't be a kilt, or a frock coat. I think our meals at the palace could stand to be a little less formal now and again."  
  
Alasdair subsides, the slackening curve of his back radiating relief.  
  
"Dylan," the prince says as he inclines his head towards him, "you and Mas— Michael are of course very welcome to attend as well, if you so wish."  
  
Dylan can imagine little worse than being introduced to the prince's royal relations when the consternation caused by his courtship is still so fresh in their minds. Besides, he will need at least a month or two to do his research on how to address them, what protocol he should follow at mealtimes, and what topics of conversation are liable to be the most pleasing, in order that he doesn't make a complete fool of himself.  
  
"I'm afraid I will have to decline," he says, trying his hardest to ape Da's beautiful, cultured way of speaking as he delivers the words he had been taught were the politest way to refuse such invitations. "Perhaps another time?"  
  
"I'll look forward to it," the prince says with a surprisingly genuine-seeming smile.

  
   
\---------------------  
  


 

The Bard's Hall will clearly have to wait until after the prince's meeting, as it's closing in on twenty to eleven when he finally starts to make a move towards taking his leave of the apothecary.  
      
He buffs his boots with a borrowed cloth that is – to Dylan's shame – not much cleaner than the leather itself, and then puts on both them and his still-damp overcoat, his nose wrinkling in obvious distaste.  
  
Once he has buttoned it all the way up to its high collar, Alasdair walks him – in accordance with yet another of their da's lessons in etiquette – to the kitchen door. They stand there, facing each other at a distance of less than a foot, for a handful of seconds that seem to stretch out into something approaching an hour to Dylan.  
  
And something closer to days for his brother, he suspects, given the hunted cast that descends across his eyes, and the compulsive twitch of his hands where they rest, uneasy, against the tops of his thighs.  
  
The prince's own gaze has taken on that same, indefinable quality that Dylan had noticed in the shop earlier, but it's soon dispersed by a sudden rush of delighted laughter.  
  
" _À bientôt, mon cher_ ," he says, in a low, purring tone that feels to curl up deep and inside both Dylan's head and stomach, never mind what it might be doing to his brother's.  
  
Alasdair's body sways slightly closer to the prince, which would suggest he isn't completely unaffected, even though his expression doesn't improve until the prince closes the small gap that remains between them and presses the lightest and swiftest of all possible kisses to his cheek.  
  
Alasdair's entire face looks to catch fire, then, turning a scalding-looking shade of red, and his hands move seemingly of their own volition to catch hold of the prince's shoulders.  
  
He doesn't return the kiss, however; simply pulls the prince into a hug that appears just as tight as any he's ever inflicted on Dylan, albeit significantly shorter in duration.  
  
"Go on," he says in a growling-rough rasp, as he steps back from the embrace, his eyes fixed very determinedly on his feet. "You'd best get a move on. And try to keep out of the rain if you can."

 

* * *

  
  
  
 **Step 2: The Exchanging of Rings**  
  
   
  
"Well?" Alasdair asks as he steps a ponderous circle in the narrow slice of space between his bed and wardrobe. "Be honest with me. Exactly how stupid do I look?"  
  
The outfit the prince had commissioned from his tailor is a rich man's idea of casual attire: a snowy white shirt with billowing sleeves shaped more for effect than practicality; a waistcoat that looks on first glance to be a plain, serviceable bottle green, but on closer inspection proves to be embellished with profuse embroidered foliage around the buttonholes and hem; and smart brown breeches tucked into long leather boots of a similar hue which have heels far higher than any Dylan has ever seen his brother wear before.  
  
Nevertheless, each piece has been carefully cut to emphasise those aspects of Alasdair's frame that are already most striking, and their colouring complements his own. The only unflattering thing about the entire ensemble is the morose expression Alasdair has donned along with it.  
  
That, and the cravat, which appears to be tight enough to serve as a garrotte behind and resembles nothing better than a heavily used handkerchief in front.  
  
"You look fine," Dylan tells him. "Except... I don't think you've tied the cravat quite right."  
  
"I'm not bloody surprised. I haven't the faintest fucking idea how it's supposed to be done." Alasdair's frown deepens, and he plucks irritably at the crumpled spill of fabric at his throat. "Maybe it would be best if I just took it off and didn't bother with it at all."  
  
"No, don't," Dylan says quickly. The addition of the neckpiece in Miss Labelle's package, was, he's certain, indicative of the level of formality that will be expected at the so-called 'relaxed' meal the prince has invited Alasdair to attend with his family. To do without would likely put his brother at a disadvantage and leave him open to accusations of being underdressed for the occasion. "I'm sure we'll be able to find something in one of Da's books that'll help us fix it."  
  
Whilst Dylan does eventually manage to unearth a slim and dog-eared tome of etiquette from their father's collection that offers a step-by-step pictorial guide to the tying of cravats, the process is still laborious and frustrating, and results in Alasdair nursing more than one neck wound caused by an ill-judged placement of the tie pin he had been provided with.  
  
"I think that's as good as we're going to be able to get," Alasdair says, easing Dylan's hands aside as he reaches up to try, for the fourth time, to rearrange the position of that pin so that it doesn't immediately get swallowed up by the cravat's folds and its gold- and diamond-tipped head is thus put on proper display. "I'm late enough as it is. If I don't hurry and catch Philippe's coachman at the end of the street, he'll probably drive the barouche right up to our sodding front door again."  
  
"He's sending a carriage for you?" Dylan asks, surprised. He wouldn't have thought his brother would have countenanced such a thing, nor, given the regularity and vociferousness with which he has shared his opinion on the subject, that the prince would consider it a kindness.  
  
"Aye. I doubt I'd be able to walk too far in these things," Alasdair says, gesturing with evident disgust towards his boots. "I don't know what he was... Surely he doesn't think I'm too short, too?"  
  
He shakes his head, clearly baffled, and after one last, smoothing pass of his hands down his waistcoat, picks up his new overcoat and takes a step towards the door.  
  
His second is hesitant, his third aborted and his forward momentum redirected into a swift about turn to face Dylan once more.  
  
"I should be back around midnight, all being well. Apparently, we're going to be playing cards after dinner," he says, in the tone of someone who has fallen into the clutches of their sworn enemy and is now finds themselves peering down the barrel of a gun.  
  
"Oh, I'd presumed you'd be staying the night at the palace, in your old quarters."  
  
"My 'old quarters' are in Philippe's chambers, which was all well and good when I was his guard, but now we're courting..." Alasdair's arched eyebrows and acutely curled top lip suggest that his sense of propriety has been offended by the very suggestion. "It'd give entirely the wrong impression. It's a bit early days for... for that sort of thing, don't you think?"  
  
There is a hint of a plea to his voice, as though he's imploring Dylan to reassure him that his actions could be seen as proper in addition to suiting his inclinations.  
  
Traditionally, couples are encouraged not to start exploring whether they are compatible inside the bedroom as well as outside it until the eighth month of their courtship at the very earliest. Despite his determination to cleave to the institution's conventions otherwise, Dylan is becoming increasingly concerned that that particular one may prove too onerous to observe himself.  
  
His brother, conversely, could well wish it postponed until betrothal or even marriage, as would be expected were they living in the prince's homeland instead.  
  
"Of course," he says soothingly. "You're quite right."  
  
Alasdair's answering smile is bright but fleeting. "Okay," he says, drawing himself up tall like a man preparing to do battle. "I'll be off, then. Wish me luck; I imagine I'll need as much of it as I can get."  
  
  
 --------------------  
  
  
Even at eight o'clock in the evening, the Bard's Hall is as busy as an anthill.  
  
Stonemasons and builders scurry along the scaffolding that rings its crumbling walls, joiners and carpenters stand in ankle-deep drifts of sawdust on the now deeply wheel-rutted lawn as they saw planks and carve balusters, and a seemingly endless procession of wagons trundles along the narrow pathway that leads up to the old building.  
  
Together they make such a cacophony that Llewellyn doesn't answer Dylan's knocking at his door for a good five minutes, and only then after Dylan has thrown his manners aside and added a few kicks to the wood for good measure.  
  
His skin tinged a sickly shade of grey; his eyes glazed and dull. He looks exhausted.  
  
"Sorry," he says. "It's difficult to hear anything inside over all this din."  
  
As Michael had made the most uncharacteristic decision to go and visit one of his few friends after dinner, Dylan had been left with nothing but his thoughts for company, and in that solitude, there had been nothing to check them from becoming ever more anxious and obsessive. When he found himself contemplating for at least the tenth time in the course of an hour what exactly Alasdair might be doing at that precise moment and thereafter all the many and varied ways the subsequently imagined occupation might go wrong, it was clear that he wouldn't get a minute's peace if he remained at the apothecary.  
  
He had hoped that Llewellyn might invite him inside for tea and conversation, solely to enable him to escape the confines of his own head for a spell, but that desire now seems fully as selfish as it does impossible.  
  
"How would you like to get away from it all for a while?" he asks. "Perhaps we could go for a walk?"  
  
"That would be lovely," Llewellyn says, sounding so grateful that Dylan's feelings of guilt intensify in consequence. "Though it will have to be a short one, I'm afraid. The last time I was away from the Hall for more than a couple of hours, I came back and found that half of my furniture had been thrown out onto the street! His Highness seems determined that I will have featherbeds and... and solid gold chairs, no matter how much I might object!"  
  
They talk very little as they make a slow, meandering circuit around Old Town's walls, as Llewellyn appears to relish the chance to be quiet. His presence – the warmth of his hand in Dylan's – is absorbing enough, however, that it's almost impossible for Dylan to think of anything but him.

  
   
\---------------

  
  
This lightness of mind is doomed to be fleeting, as Dylan's return to the apothecary is followed not ten minutes later by Alasdair, who bursts in through the back door like the very hounds and wolves of the hells are at his heels.  
  
He crosses the kitchen in three long, heavy strides, ripping the cravat from around his neck and casting it to the floor as he goes, and then begins rifling through the cupboard at the base of their dresser.  
  
"Aly," Dylan says hesitantly, "are you—"  
  
"It was crap, Dyl," Alasdair snarls. "I'll tell you exactly how crap it was later, but right now, I need a drink."  
  
"I... I don't think we have anything. You finished off the whisky a couple of weeks ago, remember? And we threw the last of the strawberry and blackcurrant wine out into the yard. I don't think my verbena will ever recover."  
  
Alasdair's back sags, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against the side of the dresser. "Right," he says with what sounds to be extreme reluctance. "It'll have to be the Antler then, I guess."  
  
In the days following his departure from the prince's service, Alasdair has scarcely spent more than a handful of minutes out of doors, save for his patrols. He has claimed to be too busy to spare time for anything save for his recent woodworking project, but Dylan has suspected throughout that some of the blame for this reclusion can be placed at their neighbours' doors.  
  
Many of them have family who work at the palace, and the prince has apparently made no secret of his courtship. That particular morsel of gossip reached Old Town not long after Alasdair himself did and has been chewed over at the Antler ever since.  
  
"Are you sure?" Dylan asks. "You're still the favourite topic of conversation there, I'm sorry to say."  
  
Alasdair nods decisively. "It's better than being sober," he says.

  
  
 ---------------------  
  


"You'll be wanting wine, I suppose," Richard says with a smirk when Alasdair approaches the bar.  
  
Alasdair shakes his head vigorously. "I've had more than my fill of wine for today, Dick. I'll have a pint of your finest horse piss, thank you."  
  
He downs that first glass before Richard has even finished counting out his change, and then slides the coins back to him in exchange for two more, which he and Dylan take to the secluded table that Angus usually occupies when he is not – Alasdair explains as they walk – taking on double shifts for reasons that he is as yet disinclined to share even with his partner.  
  
"Before you ask," Alasdair says as they settle themselves down in their seats, "Philippe and I haven't fallen out or anything, so you can stop worrying about that for a start."  
  
Truthfully, Dylan hadn't had chance to so much as wonder what might have caused Alasdair's black mood, given they'd practically sprinted all the way from the apothecary, but he thanks his brother, regardless, then asks, "What did happen, Aly?"  
  
"Prince Giovanni decided he should let me know that he believes Philippe would do better courting a fucking horse than me," Alasdair says, scowling. "Not that he said anything outright – Philippe wouldn't have stood for that – but he kept making all these sly little remarks about 'good breeding' and 'royal blood', and rolling his bloody eyes every time I picked up the wrong fork or passed the serving dish to the wrong side.  
  
"The first moment he managed to catch me on my own he flat out told me that he thinks I'm just after Philippe for his money, and that, if he is foolish enough to ever marry me, it'd be a 'irrevocable blemish on their family's name', and I..." His colour rises. "And I told him that my great-grandfather was the cousin of the last king of Northern Britannia, so maybe Philippe wasn't noble enough to be marrying _me_ , given that there were nothing but wine merchants, sailors and mercenaries in the Emperor's family tree not more than four centuries back."  
  
He laughs quietly at himself, then takes a deep gulp of his beer before continuing with: "Gods above, I never imagined I'd be desperate enough to play a card that fucking ridiculous. Anyway, that gave him pause for all of about five seconds before he started in on critiquing the way I was holding my brandy glass or some such nonsense. Supercilious arse. By that point, it was plain that I was either going to have to leave or one of us would end up pulling their sword on the other. After I told him that, even Philippe agreed that it was best that I go, so..." He shrugs. "Here I am."  
  
"Do you think he'll make trouble between you and Philippe?" Dylan asks.  
  
"I reckon he'll try," Alasdair says. "I doubt Philippe will pay him much heed, though. He did ask if I wanted him to send his cousins packing off back to Roma, but I know he likes having them there, so I guess I'll just have to learn to ignore Giovanni. Plenty of people have in-laws they can't stand, and yet they still manage to avoid duelling to the death well enough, right?"  
  
"They do," Dylan concedes. "But most of them don't have in-laws that could have them executed for treason if the fancy ever struck them, either."  
  
Alasdair chuckles. "Well, I suppose that is one of the downsides to courting a prince."  
  
"So it's true, then?" a voice rings out from behind them, startling Dylan, but not, it seems, his brother, who simply takes another sip of his pint. "You are courting the governor?"  
  
To Dylan's astonishment, he discovers when he turns around in his seat that they have drawn a small crowd, three or four deep.  
  
"Aye," Alasdair says placidly.  
  
"And he knows that courtship isn't just a fancy word for a quick roll in the hay with the help?" asks Samuel Cooper, one of the Antler's hostlers; a sinewy little man with skin the texture of a badly aged walnut.  
  
"He does." Though Alasdair's voice is still perfectly level, the muscle which has begun to twitch beneath his left eye suggests that he's uncomfortable with this line of questioning.  
  
Dylan gives his brother's forearm a comforting squeeze, and then says, "I don't—"  
  
"If he does," Cooper barrels implacably on, "how come he's not given you a ring? It's been close on a week since it was all decided, or so I've heard."  
  
Alasdair's right eye starts twitching, too, but his hands are remarkably steady as he reaches up to unfasten the button at his collar. "He has, but I could hardly wear it on my finger in my line of work, could I? It'd get smashed to pieces before the week was out," he says, pulling a thin silver chain out from under his shirt. "I'll have to wear it round my neck. See?"  
  
Cooper squints at it for no more than a second or two before he sneers and says, "Don't look like much. I would have thought he'd have sprung for gold, at the very least, if he's as dedicated as you seem to want us to believe."  
  
"I thought gold was only for engagement and wedding rings." Alasdair's brow furrows in an exaggerated fashion that Dylan recognises as merely a sham of confusion. "He wanted to buy me one anyway, but I told him that wood was traditional for courtship. I guess I was wrong."  
  
He knows very well that he isn't, as does Cooper, judging by the embarrassed flush of his cheeks. He opens his mouth as if to make a rebuttal, even so, but eventually snaps it shut and slinks back to the safety of the crowd once more.  
  
Catherine Phillips soon steps forward to take his place, though her interest seems strictly professional, her carpenter's eye fixed on the ring itself with only a speck of attention left to spare for the man wearing it. "Nice piece of work," she says approvingly. "Do you mind if I take a closer look, Aly?"  
  
Alasdair quickly unclasps the necklace and passes it to her. "Knock yourself out."  
  
Phillips crouches down beside their table, the ring cradled delicately in the palm of her hand, and Dylan takes the opportunity to look at it more closely himself as she studies it.  
  
Alasdair had sweated and cursed for three full evenings in a row, paring down a small chunk of oak – not to mention several layers of his own skin – inch by meticulous inch until something that vaguely resembled a ring finally emerged from the wood. Having borne witness to the great care and attention that had been poured into its creation despite Alasdair's complete lack of aptitude at the task, Dylan had been loath to disparage his efforts in any way.  
  
In his heart of hearts, though, he had acknowledged and accepted it was an ugly little thing, more oval than circular, and ragged around the edges despite the diligent and continued application of sandpaper.  
  
And, Alasdair himself admitted, doubtless not fit to grace the hand of a prince, but he had been adamant that this was one custom of courtship that was not negotiable.  
  
'Philippe would buy me some great gaudy thing worth more than all the houses on Ashfield Street combined if he could,' he'd said. 'But what could I give him in return? It's better if we're both just stuck wearing bits of wood, if you ask me. He won't be able to contrive a way to spend more on it than he ought, then.'  
  
The ring Philippe has given Alasdair, however, is as beautiful as any 'bit of wood' could be, to Dylan's eye. It's a warm, creamy colour, perfectly round and polished to such a fine lustre that it shines almost as brightly as a jewel.  
  
"And he carved this himself, did he?" Phillips asks, raising one eyebrow sceptically. "That's the traditional way, too, you know."  
  
"He got some fancy Eastgate jeweller to give him some lessons first," Alasdair says. "But, aye, he did."  
  
"It's not bad for an amateur. Not bad, at all." Phillips looks impressed. "And it's nice wood. Juniper, though not from one of our native trees. He must have had this ordered in specially from somewhere on the continent. Gallia, most likely. That must have cost him a pretty packet, too."  
  
The smile that had been slowly building on Alasdair's lips collapses in an instant. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he growls, crossing his arms over his chest as he slumps down sullenly in his seat. "I should have known he'd find some way wriggle out of getting me something cheap for once."  
  
  


* * *

 

 

 **Step 3: Introducing the Two (or More) Families**  
  
   
  
By the time Aly's tenure as his guard came to an end, Philippe had assumed him habituated to the persistent rumours that they were bedding together. He ignored all such implications and accusations for the most part, but even when he did acknowledge them, it was with nothing more than an exasperated roll of his eyes or even, on occasion, a joke of a far cruder nature than Philippe had thought him capable of.  
  
Agreeing to enter into courtship, however, had caused his prudery regarding the subject to not only re-emerge but redouble, swelling to almost monastic proportions.  
  
Philippe's own chambers, which were once not only a welcome sanctuary from prying eyes whilst they were conducting their investigations but Aly's temporary home besides, now seem to have become synonymous with the worst kind of depraved carnality in his mind, and he avoids them just as assiduously as any priest would the many fleshpots that proliferate Belowstreets.  
  
Still, Philippe can't help but try to persuade him towards them anew on every visit, not with the intention of bringing the man in closer proximity to his bed – as Aly appears to believe – but simply so that they might enjoy some measure of their old privacy. Giovanni has begun dogging Philippe's steps very closely of late and has no compunctions about interrupting their meetings at the most inopportune moments.  
  
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to talk in my chambers?" Philippe asks when he catches sight of his cousin pretending great interest in a rather dull portrait of their Great-Uncle Andrea nearby. "I received a particularly fine Burdigalan red from Maman yesterday, and it proved too tempting a prospect to consign down to the cellars. This may be your only chance to sample it, I'm afraid."  
  
The leeriness with which Aly regards him suggests that he has parsed 'sharing wine' as 'dropping trou', and he very firmly answers, "No."  
  
Philippe sighs, and sets course for the northeast wing yet again. "The green drawing room it is, then."  
  
Whilst its one permanent occupant is not fierce enough to repel any intruders entirely, his presence combined with the chilly, unfinished state of the wing as a whole acts as sufficient deterrent that they will likely be allowed at least an hour or two of peace there.  
  
For his own part, Philippe would consider that oil and canvas third party almost as unwelcome as a flesh and blood one had he not learnt the knack of navigating the room in such a way that he never has to so much as glance at his father's portrait.  
  
Aly, on the other hand, makes a point of stopping for a while to scrutinise it with such intense focus that Philippe doesn't doubt that he has now committed even the finest of details to memory and could, had he the knack for such things, replicate the painting so perfectly in its particulars that even the original artist would be hard-pressed to distinguish between the two.  
  
Whilst the scowl he always wears throughout these inspections reveals an antipathy to the subject that pleases Philippe, given how closely it mirrors his own feelings, he can't help but also feel his father would not consider Aly's behaviour disagreeable if he were to be made aware of it.  
  
"He doesn't deserve all the attention you give him," he remarks when he notices Aly's gaze drift towards the frame once more. "I find it's more gratifying to pretend that _thing_ isn't even there. My father is untroubled by hatred, but he has always disliked being ignored."  
  
Aly gives him a quizzical look. "It's just a painting, Philippe," he says. "The man himself won't know the difference, either way."  
  
"I know that," Philippe says hurriedly, his heart tripping over in his chest at the reminder that, despite his efforts towards dispassion, he has not quite been able to dispel the irrational, superstitious notion which had been birthed in the moment of the portrait's unsolicited arrival at the palace that it and his father are linked on a more intimate level than a mere shared likeness. "But by the same token, he's equally unaware of the glowering you regularly subject him to."  
  
Aly shrugs. "I'd do the same to his face if he were actually here."  
  
"And he would have you flogged for your insolence before you had chance to blink." Philippe shudders involuntarily. "Ah, now I'm even gladder than ever that you'll likely never meet."  
  
"I can't say that I'm losing much sleep over not making his acquaintance, either," Aly says, and then turns his back very deliberately on the painting. "Right, what was it you needed to speak to me about so urgently?"  
  
Philippe experiences a momentary pang of guilt for misleading Aly as to the relative importance of his visit, but it is as diminutive as it is transitory. Between Aly's long hours at work, his new-found discomfort regarding the palace's accommodations, and his reluctance to entertain Philippe in his own home, they scarcely spend any more time together than when they first met. And, just as he did then, Philippe has had to resort to inventing ever more desperate excuses to spend time with the man.  
  
Less than a month ago, they parted from each other's sides only to sleep, and their subsequent separation has been so abrupt and all-encompassing that it sometimes feels almost akin to a bereavement to Philippe.  
  
It does not appear to have been quite such a wrench to Aly, who bears it with a fortitude that Philippe occasionally fears borders on apathy. His sole consolation is the belief that Aly would not suffer in silence; that he would have no scruples in making it known in no uncertain terms if he were already regretting or growing tired of their arrangement.  
  
"Our upcoming dinner engagement, of course," Philippe says, gesturing for Aly to take up his usual place on the shorter of the two sofas set beneath the room's high, arching windows. "There's still so much for us to prepare."  
  
"Like what? Won't your servants be taking care of everything?"  
  
"I have not decided on the menu, for a start." Philippe takes a seat on the second sofa and withdraws from the inside pocket of his frockcoat the sheaf of paper on which he has been making his notes. "I know you said before that it didn't much matter, but surely your family must have some preferences when it comes to food?"  
  
"They'll be happy enough if none of it's burnt," Aly says. "We're hardly what you'd call gastronomists."  
  
"And what about drinks? I assume wine would not be welcomed, but would ale or cider be the better choice in its place?"  
  
"As long as there's a ready supply of it, you won't be getting any complaints. Though I have to warn you we'll likely be carrying Will out of here by the end of the evening, come what may. He doesn't handle alcohol half so well as he thinks he does."  
  
"All right," Philippe says, disconsolately writing a question mark against the first two items on the list he had drawn up in an effort to quiet the restless thoughts that had kept him from sleep the previous night. "Now, I had a few concerns about the seating plan..."  
  
Aly furrows his brow over the sheet of paper Philippe hands him as though it's a complex and indecipherable code rather than a simple diagram. "Why in the hells do we need this?" he asks after failing to elucidate its meaning to his satisfaction.  
  
"As the point of this exercise is to introduce our families to one another, I thought it would be best to alternate seating between the two sides," Philippe explains. "Though, as you can see from all the crossings out, Giovanni's placement proved something of a conundrum."  
  
"Well, Dyl's probably the most sensible person to seat next to him. If someone stabbed him in the chest he'd probably still smile and apologise for getting his blood on their knife. I doubt there's much of anything that your cousin could say that'd provoke him into an argument, especially as he'll be trying his hardest to be on his best behaviour.  
  
"And then you'll have to move the bard opposite them, because Dyl will doubtless worry so much about how he's faring that he'll lose his appetite, otherwise. So, then..." Aly looks up from the paper and offers Philippe an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Philippe, I think I'm going to have to redraw the whole thing."  
  
He holds his hand out expectantly, and when he curls his fingers around the pen Philippe passes to him, Philippe belatedly notices that, for the first time, he is wearing his ring in its proper place.  
  
Knowing that he has made Aly uncomfortable with it in the past, Philippe has tried to break himself out of the habit of staring, but he discovers he cannot tear his eyes away all the same.  
  
Aly tightens his grip around the pen. Below his knuckles, his skin blanches; above them, it reddens all the way up to his wrist. "Philippe," he begins, presumably with the intention of voicing an admonishment, but either his impetus or his will gives out before he can form the next word, and all that escapes his lips is a reedy sigh.  
  
"Apologies, _mon cher_ ," Philippe says placatingly. "I was just surprised to see you wearing your ring. I had thought you meant to keep it on its chain at all times."  
  
"Aye, but only because I don't want it to get damaged. I'm not working today so I thought it would be safe to give it a bit of an airing." He ducks his chin and tilts his head until his gaze catches Philippe's. "I'm not trying to keep it hidden away. You know that, right?"  
  
Philippe wishes he could say yes, but he has contemplated that possibility far too often of late for that particular lie to come either readily or easily. As Aly's anxious expression and strained tone both seem to beg for reassurance, however, he digs deep and manages to gather together sufficient scraps of desire and determination to justify a small nod of his head.  
  
Aly's answering chuckle sounds relieved. "By rights, I should be the one who's surprised," he says. "I didn't think you'd suffer that travesty of woodworking I inflicted on you past the first day."  
  
Philippe studies the ring Aly had gifted him with. It's slightly misshapen, made from dull, knotted wood, and he has had to sand the inside edge of it himself several times as it kept giving him splinters, but had clearly been made with... Well, definitely not love or skill, but unquestionably a certain dogged persistence that is oddly heartening.  
  
"I want people to know that I'm courting," he says quietly, and then adds with a wry twist of his lips, "If you'd made me a sign to hang around my neck that said as much, I would have worn it just as gladly."  
  
Alasdair looks baffled for a spell, but ultimately, he laughs, taking the words as a joke that Philippe isn't entirely sure himself was intended. Then, with a sudden lurch of movement that seems to startle him fully as much as it does Philippe, he leans across the two armrests that separate them from each other and takes hold of Philippe's hand.  
  
In the early days of their association, Philippe wondered anew with each touch he and Aly shared whether it might be a sign, a portent, a prelude to more, but now he forces all such thoughts aside and schools his mind to a careful blankness. He has promised Aly a year's patience – no more but also no less – so instead of wondering, he waits, secure if not exactly happy in the knowledge that if their situation was entirely hopeless, then Aly would have no qualms in telling him as much.  
  
So complete is this deliberate distraction that Philippe barely registers this particular touch at all, though it lingers longer than most. Aly winds their fingers together and draws their linked hands close enough to his face that Philippe can feel the tickle of his breath against his skin, even if he does not allow himself to acknowledge its warmth.  
  
"Well," Aly says at length, "it looks better on your hand than it did in mine, at least."  
  
As compliments go, it's a meagre one that does not merit the heat that rushes to Philippe's cheeks, but the quirk of Aly's mouth and the softening of his eyes seem to speak something that he cannot quite put a name to, and he already knows Aly cannot quite explain.  
  
Nevertheless, as signs and portents go, Philippe would like to think it a hopeful one, all the same.  
  
  



End file.
